Gay Erotic Stories

It was June, the summer before my senior year in college. Using some of the money my uncle had left me, I was giving myself a tour of some of the southeast Asian countries. It was a steamy, later afternoon. I was walking down a narrow street, pretty much off the beaten path. I wanted to get away from the crowds and see some of the local culture, the kind the tourists don't see. That's when I saw him. At first, I wasn't sure it was Max. For one thing, I never expected to see him here. For another, it had been over a year since I'd seen him. But when I called out his name, he stopped, turned toward me and smiled in recognition. I darted across the street to where he was. We shook hands warmly. "Where th' hell are you doing here?" I asked. "How'd you get here? We were supposed to have been roommates last year, remember?" He smiled a little sheepishly. "It's a long story," he said. He paused. "Got time for some coffee?" I told him that I did have time, all the time in the world. We went off to sit at a table in a little outdoor café. It was still the same old Max, tall, darkly handsome as a god, but there had been some changes, too. For example, where once he'd worn his dark brown hair to shoulder length, it was now cut, close to his shapely head. The major change, however, was in his build. Max had always had a good, solid, slender physique. Now, he seemed to have put on muscle. Even in the denims and short sleeved shirt he wore, it was easy to tell he was really buffed. The waiter took our order and went away. Max took out a cigarette and lit it. I looked at him in some surprise. Max had always been something of a health nut. "So, when'd you start to smoke?" I wondered. "In prison," he answered. He lowered his eyes and tapped the cigarette ash into the ashtray between us. "That's part of the story." "Prison? For what?." Max took a drag from his cigarette. The waiter returned with two cups of coffee. I paid the tab, gave him a tip and he left. As Max told his story, he'd come to the country for much the same reason I was here: to see the sights, get a taste of an exotic culture and have some fun for himself. "I got myself a room in this nice little hotel," he continued. "It was right near the university, so I figured I'd get a chance to sample some campus night life, which is what I did." He paused to smoke his cigarette. "That night." He tapped the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. "I did some bar hopping, got to meet some people. It was about midnight when I left this place figuring I'd call it a night and go back to the hotel and sack out. I never got the chance." Again, he paused to smoke his cigarette. I drank some of my coffee. "What happened?" "I didn't get more than a few steps outside the place when the cops grabbed me. There were two of them. One held a gun on me, the other handcuffed me and told me I was under arrest for dealing drugs." "Jesus!" I swore softly. I'd read that in this country, death was the standard penalty for anyone caught with drugs. "You didn't have any, did you? "No, no way. I didn't even smoke tobacco then. I told them that. I mean, I really protested, but all I got was a couple of hard cracks across the face. After that, they stuffed me in the back of this squad car and took me to the jail. Maybe you've seen it. It's that big, stone building across town that looks like a fortress. It's even got a moat around it." He took a final drag from his cigarette. Carefully and deliberately, he stubbed it out in the ashtray. He picked up his coffee cup using both hands and sipped a little. After replacing the cup in its saucer, he used the corner of his napkin to daub the corners of his mouth. I watched all this curiously. Max had never been neat, never one to use a napkin at all. Now, it seemed as if all that, too, had changed. It was as if he'd been trained not to make a mess. "You've been house broken," I teased. "I've been broken in a lot of ways and put back together again." He took his pack of ciga-rettes and his lighter from his shirt pocket and carefully placed them on the table side by side. Max continued. "When they got me inside the prison, they left the cuffs on and cut my clothes off. One of the cops stuck a couple of fingers up my butt and said he'd found a bag of coke. It was crazy, absolutely nuts, but there wasn't anything I could do. And sure I pro-tested. I demanded to make a phone call, call the embassy, my parents in the states. I de-manded a lawyer, all that shit, but it was like I was talking to the wind. One of them put leg irons on my feet connected by about a foot of chain. Then I was dragged away to what they called 'my trial.'" "Trial? In the middle of the night?" Max took another cigarette and lit it. "Uhm-hum. There was this big room with a stone floor. There was this judge sitting at a little table. The two cops shoved me to my knees and forced me to keep my head down. I heard the judge say that I'd been found guilty of drug possession, but he was going to be lenient with me. Instead of being executed, I was to get 10 strokes of the cane, spend a year in jail and then be put on probation." "That's it?" I asked incredulously. "No lawyer, no jury, no chance to say anything in your own defense?" With a wry smile, he shook his head. "No, David, none of that. I'd been found guilty and sentenced all in less than 5 minutes. After that, they hauled me off and threw me in a cell. That's where I spent the night, scared shitless. The only good thing was they took off my handcuffs." He smoked his cigarette and glanced around. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Nothing," he answered, shaking his head once. "Don't worry about it. So anyway," he continued, "the next morning, this guard appeared. He was young, wearing a uniform, shorts, a short-sleeve shirt. You could tell he had a good build on him, a real good muscular physique. He gave me something to eat, rice with chicken, I remember, and took me to a bathroom to shower. "When I'd finished, he took me out to this big courtyard. That's where I was caned. They tied me down, face first, to this heavy wooden rack. The guard watched as another man caned me; 3 blows to my shoulders, 4 on my ass and 3 blows on the backs of my thighs. I fig-ured I could handle it. I wasn't going to give those guys the satisfaction of hearing me scream. But, Christ Almighty, David, you cannot believe how that hurts. The pain is incredi-ble. See, when you're caned, it's done slowly, so the pain from one stroke registers in your brain before you're hit again. So even with the first blow across my shoulder blades, there I was, twisting and squirming, screaming my lungs out with each blow. I couldn't help my-self." He stopped to finish his cigarette and stub it out the same way he'd done before. Max went on. "After I was caned, the guard who had watched took me back to my cell. I lay down, face first and he put some salve on my cuts to stop the pain. When he was done, he fucked me." "Come again?" I wanted to make sure I'd heard correctly. "You said he fucked you?" "Yeah, fucked me, screwed me, took me up the ass, impaled me on a cock that looked like a post and felt like a post had been shoved up inside me." From having Max as my roommate, I knew that he had a very attractive, tight, little butt. I'd often fantasized about fucking that bubble butt of his. I'd never found out. The guard had been where I'd only dreamed about going. That's why, I guess, for a fleeting moment, I envied the guard. Max drank a little more coffee, holding the cup as he had before. As before, too, he used the napkin to daub his mouth. "After he screwed me," Max went on, "he cut off my hair. You know what he did with it?" "No." "He used it to make a bracelet for himself. He wore it all the time. So, when he was finished shearing me, he took me to a cell block, down two floors from where I'd been. My cell was 10' by 6', no window. There was a mat, a bucket, that's it. The walls and floor were made of concrete, all gray. The only light came from a light bulb set in the ceiling, either that or from the corridor through the bars on the front of the cell. That was to be my home for the next year." "Jesus," I swore softly, shaking my head. I drank some coffee. "I'd have gone stir-crazy. They did let you out ? I mean for exercise." What I was thinking that for having spent a year in a 10 by 6 foot cell, Max was looking very good. "Oh yeah, I was let out alright. That's part of the story. See, as I found out, every guard in the place had one of the prisoners as 'his boy' who he used for sex. My guard had me." "A boy toy," I said. "A sex slave." "Yeah," Max confirmed. "He made me his sex toy-slave if you want to put it that way, and kept me that way." "Lemme ask you, had you ever had sex with another man?" I was more than curious. "No," he answered, shaking his head once. "My guard had to teach me how to do it." "Did you enjoy it?" "Yes. I mean, I still don't like getting fucked up the ass, but it's fun sucking a nice, juicy cock-or better yet, having my cock sucked." He paused. "That's an art, you know, cock sucking. Almost an art, anyway. You have to know how to do it; clamp your lips around the base of the crown. That's where the feeling is, not in the shaft." "So I hear." I tried to sound as non-committal as possible. As far as I knew, Max did not know I was Gay. But when I looked at him, he gave me a conspiratorial little smile and winked. "A part of being his boy," Max continued, "was that I had to look good. You asked if I ever got out of my cell. I did. A lot, as a matter of fact. Every morning, after breakfast, my guard took me to a gym. Believe it or not, it was really fantastic, very well-equipped, with all kinds of up-to-date equipment. He put me on a program to add muscle and definition to my frame and kept me working at it until I'd achieved what he wanted. That's why I look like I do now," he said, glancing down at himself. His shirt outlined his slab-like pecs. He flexed one arm. The bulge of his huge bicep threatened to rip the cloth. "And before you ask, the gym had tanning beds. I used one every day." "You really look great," I said, not bothering to disguise my envy, my admiration and de-sire. His shirt was open about half way down the front. The air was sultry. A couple of beads of sweat had formed and lay glistening in the cleavage between his beautiful pecs. I would have given a lot to be able to tongue bathe his sweaty chest. "Thanks for the compliment. I think I look pretty good." He flexed one arm. The bulge of his huge bicep threatened to rip the cloth. "And before you ask, the gym had tanning beds. I used one every day." The effect, I thought, showed. He looked like a bronzed young god. "So, anyway," Max went on, "I got more exercise than I'd ever had in my life. The food was good, lots of vitamins." He stopped to take out a cigarette and light it. "I've never been in better condition, physically." "But you smoke?" Smoking didn't seem to fit with the rest of the regimen. "Smoking was part of what they called 'behavior and attitude adjustment.' Like all the prisoners, I had to be taught to obey. So when my guard gave me a pack of cigarettes and told me to smoke, I learned how. Smoking was how I was punished, too." "Punished?" "Yeah. I was addicted to it, so whenever I broke one of the rules-and there were a million of them-my guard took away my cigarettes and didn't give me any more for awhile." "That probably made you climb the walls." Max smoked his cigarette and chuckled. "More exactly, made me learn how to grovel and plead." "Any other punishments? I mean, were you ever caned again?" "No, never caned, but yes, there were other punishments, anything to break me down. For example, the standard uniform for prisoners was a pair of shorts, like running shorts of real thin cloth. They were slit up both sides to the belt line and had the crotch cut out so they really amounted to nothing more than flaps front and back. That's all any of us ever wore. When I did something my guard didn't like, he'd make me stand, pull up the back of my shorts to expose my ass and paddle me until I cried. Often it was done when other prisoners and guards were around to watch and listen. After that he'd invite three or four guys to take me up the ass. He did it to shame me and it worked. "The shorts were convenient too, because they made my asshole readily available when my guard wanted to fuck me-or when he allowed others to do it, which was often. All they had to do was order me to bend over, pull up the flap and screw me." "And you had to do it, had to submit?" Just the thought of that; of being forced to submit to a thoroughly dominate male, made me hot. "Yes. There was no other choice. Like all the prisoners, I had to allow my guard to use my body any way he wished, any time he saw fit. The guards exchanged each other's boys regu-larly. Too, there were a lot of orgies with the other prisoners. There was this really cute young guy in the cell across the hall from mine. Blond, blue eyes, he said he was 18. He and I had to screw each other's brains out regularly while the guards stood around, watched, jacked off or took pictures. "One time, I forget what I'd done-maybe nothing at all. Anyway, early on, I'd been in the prison only about a month. My guard put a chain around my neck, handcuffed my arms be-hind my back, put me on a leash and took me to the guards' toilet. There he made me get down on my knees and clean out the urinals, all 10 of them, with my tongue. He enjoyed himself, forcing me to do that, degrading me that way, but God it was awful. I thought I was going to be sick. I almost was." "Only one time?" Max shook his head. "No. I'd be punished that way once every other week, on average. I never did get used to it, but I did it. I had to. My guard would stand over me with a riding crop and if I hesitated or slackened at all, he'd use the crop on my butt or sometimes a cattle prod on my balls." "So you're free now," I said. "Are you going home?" "No, I can't," he said sadly. "I can't leave the country until I've paid back all the expenses of my being in prison. Let me show you something." He pushed the sleeve up over his right shoulder and turned to show me. Engraved in his muscled flesh was a large black square. In it were some words I did not understand. "What it says," Max explained "is that I'm a con-victed felon and the name of my guard-owner." "A brand?" "No, but something like it. The design was drawn on with ink and then acid was used to etch the design into my flesh." With the fingers of his left hand he gently rubbed it. "Oh God, how that hurt." Quickly, he rolled his sleeve back down covering the brand-like tattoo. "Making you a marked man." "Yeah. Showing everyone that I am an ex-con and since I am one, no one's allowed to hire me." "So then, how do you pay back…?" Max cut me off. "There are four or five clubs where ex-prisoners like me can work, the only places we're allowed to work. I'm a stripper and a whore. Any man in the audience who has the price can buy me for a quick fuck, an hour or a night. I don't see any of the money. My guard gets all the money made by his stable of ex-cons which includes me and gives the state a cut. What I get is food, cigarettes, some clothes and a place to sleep." "That cop and a bunch of higher ups get rich from the proceeds of your body." "That's about it," Max replied with resignation. "How long's it going to be before you pay everything back?" "I don't know. I haven't been told. None of us ever are." He paused. "Forever, maybe." "Forever? Jesus! But can't you cover that thing up. Wear a bandage or a long-sleeve shirt or something, long enough to get a plane out of here?" "Wouldn't work. See, before they released me, they put a little sensor underneath the skin at the back of my neck. Every ex-con has one. That's how my guard keeps track of me and the others. We're monitored all the time. And besides, David, even if I was able to get away somehow and go home." He paused. "Well, maybe that wouldn't be the best thing to do." "Whatda you mean?" "David, I'm different, so very different from the way I was-and not just in physical appearance. For the past year, I've been dominated and controlled. I haven't been able to do a thing for myself. Hell, I couldn't even take a piss or shit without asking permission first. I'm not sure I could even function as a free man any more." He paused and glanced nervously around. "See, that's what I was doing over in this part of town when you saw me." "What?" "Trying to see if I could act like a free man again. I covered up my mark so I could walk along the street and not have any cop who saw me, grab me. I wanted to come into a place like this and get served." "Get served?" "I can't get served any place if the mark's visible. In a coffee shop, like this one, you'd have to order for me and I'd have to sit and drink on the ground." "Christ!" I swore and shook my head. "You are a slave." "Yes I am." He leaned forward in his chair. "David, take my advice and get the first plane out of here. You're under 21, blond, got a nice body. You're just the kind of guy they look for. They'll grab you sure enough." I saw him look off down the street. I turned my head to see two cops coming toward us. They were young and wearing tan short sleeve shirts and walking shorts to match. Each was carrying a swagger stick tucked underneath his arm. They stopped at our table. Max had a look on his face that combined fear with resignation. One of the cops took Max's sleeve and ripped it up to the collar, revealing the mark on his shoulder. Without a word, he slipped from his chair, fell to his knees and bent down, so his forehead touched the pavement. One of the cops put a booted foot on Max's neck. "Who gave you permission to be here?" he demanded. "No one, sir," Max answered. "What were you doing? Trying to escape, live on your own?" The cop ground his boot into Max's neck. "No sir. Please sir. I can't escape." "You'll be punished for this." "Yes, sir. I should be." The one cop said something to the other in their native language, which I didn't understand. The cop with his boot on Max's neck gave me the once over. He took his foot off Max's neck. "Stand up, whore," the cop ordered. "Drop your shorts." Max quickly did as he was told, keeping his head down in submission "Get over there," the cop commanded, pointing his swagger stick at a table. "Bend over that. Let's show your friend here how we punish slaves like you." Max went to the table, bent over it and grabbed the far edge. His ass was in the air, his muscular legs were spread wide. With one hand firmly planted on the small of Max's back, the cop began to beat his bare butt flesh with the swagger stick. I watched, fascinated in spite of myself. Max had a gorgeous little butt. Even with the criss-cross of scars on it from other beatings he'd received, it was pretty. Now, under the viscously hard swats the cop was giving him, I saw his ass cheeks clench and unclench attractively. I couldn't help wondering what it would be like if, instead of Max, it was me taking the beating? "You wanta fuck him?" the other cop asked me. The cop was drop-dead gorgeous with a sultry, aggressive sensuality to his wonderfully handsome features that could drive me wild with lust. His slab-like pecs and jutting nipples were outlined by his shirt. The curves of his bulging biceps pushed against his sleeves. What I came close to saying to the cop was forget Max. Let's you and me go someplace and you fuck me. Lemme suck on your nice, jutting tits. Lemme wash your belly with my tongue and get strands of your pubic hair stuck between my teeth. I didn't say any of that, though. What I did say was that, no, that I didn't want to screw Max, which was a lie. By the time the cop had finished beating him, Max was crying and pleading for mercy. The cop pressed a beeper. Seemingly out of nowhere, another cop appeared. Max's arms were wrenched behind him and he was handcuffed. With blows from their feet and night sticks, the cops drove him down the street. As they did, his partner came to where I was sitting and stood, bowing his body slightly, so that his shapely thighs were pressed against the arm of my chair. He had a balloon in his shorts and he could see I had one, too. "I like to have you," the cop said. He ran the tip of an index finger across my lips. His sweat moistened shirt clung to his chest, outlining his pecs and his nipples. God, I wanted to suck on those tits. "I'd like you to have me," I replied, putting one hand on his bulging crotch. Max was gone now and far from my white-hot mind. With one hand, the cop gently smoothed back the hair from my forehead. "It is against the law to touch a man like that," he said, looking down at my hand on his swollen crotch and then deeply into my eyes. I did not remove my hand. Instead, I squeezed gently, making him draw in a deep breath. "Then I guess you'll have to arrest me." "Yes, I will." "When?" I'd thought he'd arrest me right then. He did not. Instead, he dug into his pocket, pulled out a business card and gave it to me. On it in black letters was the name and address of a club. "You come there tonight, midnight," the cop said. "You and me, we get together there." From the pocket of his shorts, he took a small pen knife and cut off a lock of my hair. "A souvenir," the cop said, looking at the strands of my hair he held between a thumb and forefinger. I didn't say anything and he went away. I went to the club that night dressed in a tank top, a tight pair of denim cutoffs and san-dals. On the way, I bought my first pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The cop wasn't at the club, but I didn't expect him to be there. I didn't stay long, only about fifteen minutes. I left a little after one in the morning and stopped outside. I lit a cigarette and waited. Shortly, I heard the sound of footsteps coming from behind me, the tread of booted feet. I waited. "You're under arrest," I heard the cop say. I dropped my cigarette to the pavement, put my arms behind my back and lowered my head. "For touching you like I did," I said. "That will do." He snapped the heavy cuffs on my wrists making me his prisoner. "Yes. I should be punished." He pushed his crotch against my ass. "You speak the truth. You have to be punished," he whispered. "For a long, long time." Then, he took me to his squad car and we drove away. I would never be free again.