Simon Sheppard: Best Gay Erotica 2012

“You know I could arrest you for that?”

“For what? ” I asked innocently. “What did I do?”

He chuckled. “You’re a gutsy one, aren’t you?

I shrugged, still staring at his crotch. He adjusted his stance so I could see it even better in the light from the streetlight. There was no doubt that he had a very large cock—and it was very hard.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asked.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“My prick,” he hissed.

“It’s very big,” I said.

“You got that right,” he said. “Do you want it?”

“Not if you’re going to arrest me… or give me a ticket.”

He studied me carefully, up and down several times. “Do you have someplace to go?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you want to take me there?”

“Yes.”

He took my driver’s license from under the clip and started to give it back—then he slipped it into his jacket pocket and zipped it up. “I think I’ll keep this until we get where we’re going. Okay?”

“Anything you say, sir,” I said, feeling giddy.

“That’s right, friend. You’ve got the idea. Anything I say. ” He patted my arm. “I’ll follow you home.”

As he lowered himself onto the seat of his bike, he adjusted his hard cock so he could sit comfortably—then looked up at me with a shitty grin and squeezed it with both hands. “Okay.” he called. “Let’s haul ass.”

Brad had been home and gone out again.

His denim jacket lay on the bed, and the closet was open; he had changed to his leather jacket. The cocksucker had finished with one trick and had gone out for another.

“You live with someone?” the cop asked.

I turned to face him. He had taken off his jacket and cap and tossed them onto a chair by the bed, and was standing with his hands in his back pockets, grinning that shitty grin. His leather outfit looked like it had been painted on his muscular body. His hair was almost a steel-gray, cut very short against his skull. He was the physical prototype of the ideal cop—the one you pictured, as a kid, defending the helpless and innocent against the forces of wickedness and evil. But not with a basket like this one had.

I tossed Brad’s jacket into the closet and closed the door. “Not anymore,” I said. “You want a drink?”

“Got any beer?”

“Several cases.” I started out toward the kitchen.

“Hey, wait. C’mere.”

As I turned, he spread his legs wider. With one hand he milked down his cock while his other hand beckoned me to come to him.

I went back. He took my hand and pressed it over the bulge. It surged, then grew under my fingers.

“You like that?”

“No,” I said, massaging it, “it’s too fucking big.”

He laughed. “You’ll manage. What’s yours like?”

“Feel it and see.”

“Not just yet, friend. We’ll get to that later. Just show me. Take your pants off.”

“Let me get the beer first.”

“No,” he snapped. “Take them off now . I want to see how big your prick is. I want to look at that nice round ass I’m gonna stick my big prick up inside and give you the fuck of your life.”

“Not this cowboy,” I said. “I’m a virgin there. Don’t worry, I’m a very good cocksucker. You can shove your big prick there.”

He chuckled. “Oh? A virgin? I don’t believe it for a minute, Snow White, but… we shall see.”

“Let me get the beer…”

“Get undressed first.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched me undress. When my cock flipped up as I took off my shorts, the cop said, “Well, well. Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“Nowhere near as good as mine, but… nice .” He stood up and pulled me to him, turning me so that my ass pressed against his crotch and his hairy, muscular arms tightly embraced my chest and stomach. I could feel his hot breath on my neck, in my ear, and I closed my eyes and allowed the sensations to overwhelm my body.

Click.

I tried to pull away, but one wrist was already handcuffed, and he held the other one painfully. The other cold band of the cuffs clipped over it. Click.

“Hey.”

He shoved me onto the floor, facedown. Then he was on top of me, his weight on my shoulders, his knees in the crooks of my arms, pinning me helplessly. He grabbed my legs and I felt something being wrapped around my ankles. I tried to yell but he sat on my head, pressing my face into the rug, wrapping my belt around my ankles, then cinching it.

Then he sat up. Instantly I started to yell, but one huge hand clapped painfully over my mouth. He jerked my head back, and I felt something cold and hard just under my cheekbone. It was a gun.

He leaned close and whispered intensely: “One more move like that outa you, Snow White, and you’re dead meat . You got that? I mean, your queer brains will be spattered all over this fucking faggot apartment. Understand? ”

I tried to nod, but he held me too tight.

He eased his hand off my mouth—but the gun muzzle pressed even harder against my face.

“I said: Understand?” he demanded.

“Yes.” I could hardly hear my own voice. My heart was pounding and the room seemed to be exploding with colors and noises.

“That’s a good boy.” I could feel the gun at my cheek twitching, as though the hand holding it was shaking.

He let my head down very slowly, his hand cupped under my chin—sweating and hot. Then he stood up. The toe of his boot eased under my belly and lifted up, rolled me over onto my back. I looked up into a flushed face—wide green eyes—and a tight, menacing grin.

The man was insane.

It was written all over his face.

And the way he held the gun—leaning down, pointing the muzzle between my eyes—I knew that he wanted to kill me.

He took a deep breath. “Now…” he said quietly, “if you just behave yourself… we’re gonna have ourselves a little fun. But you have to behave yourself, Snow White, or it’s all over. Bang. You’re dead. Too bad. Now tell me you’ll be a good boy.”

I closed my eyes and nodded.

“No…” he said. “I asked you to say it.”

“All right.”

“All right what ?”

“I’ll be good.”

“No. Say ‘I’ll be a good boy… Master.’”

I looked up at him, convinced of his madness.

“ Say it .”

The gun touched my forehead.

“ Say. It. ”

“I’ll be a good boy…”

“Master. Say it. Say it, goddammit, or you’re fucking roadkill.”

“Master,” I whispered.

“Good.” He sighed and took the gun away, breathing heavily. “Yes, that’s very good. Because I don’t really want to kill you… just yet.” He ran his fingers up my cock, and it jumped at his touch. “A dead one doesn’t do that,” he said, and stroked it again. “You see… it’s very important… that you remember… always … that I am your master. Absolutely. That’s my job. It’s a case of natural selection, you see. I’m superior to you, and that’s why I’m a cop. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Master.”

He nodded—and his hand moved slowly up my stomach to my chest. “If you were superior, then you’d be a cop too. That’s obvious, isn’t it? So you have to trust me completely—because I know what’s best for you. And so, if I tell you to do something—or say something—then you just have to do it, or say it, because I know what’s best for you.” He stood and smiled down at me—like a teacher who has finally got through to a stupid child. “Where did you say the beer was?”