Gay Erotic Stories

This is entirely fiction and not meant to imply anything about anyone in Washington DC. I’ve been a firefighter in the District of Columbia for over 10 years now, assigned to a ladder company near the predominantly gay area of DuPont Circle. Typically, my job is to tiller or steer the rear axle of a tractor-drawn aerial ladder truck and climb the aerial to rescue victims or start ventilation of the fire building on the roof. Although I am gay also, I am not “out” at work, but I think some of the guys on my platoon have done the math and figured it out. It’s finally springtime again in DC and the college boys from George Washington, American and Georgetown Universities are looking hot as they shed their long, baggy winter clothes for shorts and snug-fitting t-shirts. I confided my preferences to my co-worker, Dave, the tractor driver for the ladder company, only because he politely asked if I was gay. He doesn’t give me a hard time about it and the captain doesn’t ever question when we want to go out on district familiarization drills on these spring afternoons. I get a perfect view from my perch; the doors to the tiller cab open, a gentle breeze blowing in as we cruise the streets in our chariot. Everybody looks up wondering what it must be like to drive the rear of the ladder truck. Me, I am a classic Italian firefighter: Big shoulders and pecs and muscular legs, and hairy just about everywhere. I dress the part, my biceps and triceps snug in the short sleeves of my navy blue uniform, t-shirt, and my scanning eyes hidden behind some mirrored Oakley sunglasses. The guys I want to sleep with are 20somethings and know they are hot looking. I dig the soccer players, J. Crew-looking frat preppies and other all-American boy-next-door jock types. I don’t care about dick size. Just give me a hot jock who is fairly smooth and knows what he is doing and I will do the rest. I prefer to be on top but there are exceptions to all rules. There is a gym right across the street from the firehouse where I occasionally work out on-duty and usually catch a workout on days off between my 24-hour shifts. There is just something about your average post-college guy in some Nike or Adidas gear that just pushes me over the edge. And the more of those guys that are in there when I am working out, the better my workout is; I just push myself a little further and harder than the guys 10 years my junior. I’ve also become aware of more of those high-performance motorcycles in the area lately and there is something very intriguing about the guys crouched over sleek motorcycles in matching leathers that gives a stir to my insides. Not too long ago, as I went through the morning check of the rig, I noticed a stud roll up to the gym across the street from the fire station on his motorcycle, which was trimmed in a shade of red that matched our fire trucks. He was the shit. I had just finished running a chain saw and watched him roll in on U Street and park the bike. Dave caught me looking and just smiled while I watched him sling his leg over the back of the bike, guessing he was a couple inches taller than me at six feet or so, and with a lean muscular build. Not skinny but not a bodybuilding hulk. I was mesmerized at how his riding leathers clung to his body: Black, red and white leather that appeared to be a one-piece suit. He took off the matching helmet and I almost gasped: Short dirty blond hair and maybe a day or two of bearded face. Matching gloves and black boots. He grabbed a black soft-sided bag from the back of the bike and headed into the gym. We got tapped out for a box alarm and hit the streets with the engine company that’s quartered with us and when we returned, the bike was gone. I waited days for the bike to return to no avail and then one day, while returning from a call, I spotted him again. I made a mental note of the license plate and became obsessed with Motorcycle Man. There was no routine for him. He would come to the gym at random and I never noticed him when I was working out; of course, the fact that the gym operates on three levels might have thwarted my spying efforts. I would occasionally see the motorcycle parked here and there around DuPont while we were out on the rig. I only imagined what it would be like to be the motorcycle. Forced to perform for him, with him riding me, leaning into me, coaxing me to max out. Not my usual style, but a little change does the soul good. It was my day off and getting late in the spring evening just as the days were starting to get warmer and longer. I had just picked up my older convertible BMW M3 from my Virginia mechanic after having some work done on the engine. Clad in some Gap jeans and a snug t-shirt, I put the top down and began to make the trip back into the District when I caught a glimpse of a crotch-rocket motorcycle in my rearview mirror. I adjusted my speed to let the rider catch up; after all, I wanted a peek just to stir my loins and to continuing the fantasy. Just the night before I had a fresh piece where I tore up this frat boy’s ass from a local bar and I was always on the prowl on my days off. My cock stirred as the crouched-over form drew closer. In the setting sun, I recognized the colors as the bike neared my car. As he drew parallel to my side in the left lane, he looked over through the tinted visor and with his right hand he pointed his gloved index finger at me and beckoned me to follow him. I switched lanes and fell in behind him in the fast lane, accelerating and throwing the shift lever into overdrive. I watched the needle on the tachometer bounce to the right as I mashed down on the accelerator and started to close the gap to him reaching 95 mph, then over 100 mph as we approached the interstate’s exit near the Pentagon. I slowed for the ramp, my eyes training ahead to keep him in sight and again punched my gas pedal as the ramp merged into Route 110, heading for the Memorial Bridge that connects Arlington National Cemetery to the Lincoln Memorial. Cruising over the bridge and going right onto what becomes Rock Creek Parkway I followed him, up the ramp to Massachusetts Avenue, back down though DuPont, back to the Southeast-Southwest Freeway and into the rougher part of DC. He slowed down as we went into an area of old dilapidated structures and rolled up to what appeared to be the rear loading dock of an abandoned warehouse. An overhead roll-up door opened as if by magic and he drifted the bike in, dismounted and motioned to me again. I pulled my car into the bay next to his bike, and the door started rolling down; my heart was pounding and I felt sweat starting to seep in my pits. There were no lights, just the last strands of daylight peeking through the dirty windows of the warehouse. Not a word was spoken but there was an understanding. He showed me the way, up a short flight of stairs and through an old sliding metal clad fire door that creaked as he opened it for me. The room we entered was even darker but I was still able to adjust my eyes and identify the bare brick walls, different styles of weightlifting benches and other gym equipment and a big rolling toolbox like a mechanic would have. I knew I was sweating, a little gritty and a little grimy from the high-speed ride here and could only imagine what was inside the black, red and white leathers. I steeled myself into calmness. I am rarely if ever submissive but somehow, I knew I wasn’t in control anymore. He came to me, still with his helmet on and put his gloved hands on my pecs and massaged them until he found my nipples. His hands tapered into just two fingertips touching each of my nipples: Twisting and pulling and turning them through the snug cotton fabric of my t-shirt. I heaved and moaned as I put my hands on his leathered shoulders, touching his hot leather. And it was warm to the touch, warmer than my skin as he took my hands off of him and pushed them back down to my sides. I couldn’t resist and started to reach out and cup his leathered butt and again, this time more forcefully, he pushed my wandering hands back to my sides. I tried looking in his eyes through the tinted visor but couldn’t see. The only communication came from his fingers and hands. The longer I was in the room, the more my eyes adjusted, the more I could discern the features of where I was. He gently walked me forward as he backed up until I was in the center of a cable-crossover machine that I spied a while ago. He lifted my right arm until it extended at a 45-degree angle from my body and deftly cuffed my forearm with a leather wrist restraint. His leather gloved fingers touching me and the leather of the restraint felt good. Still he said nothing as he repeated the process to my left arm, my silence my acquiescence to him. He returned to playing with my pecs and nips and now my arms with his gloved fingertips. He dropped and reached under the legs of my jeans, bunching my socks down on top of my Nike cross-trainers, the leather restraints becoming taut over each bared ankle. His hands continued to probe me and I became acutely aware of the scent of him and his leather, watching him touch me and touch himself. I wanted to talk, to ask for more and to direct him but that seemed futile as the helmeted man continued, seeming to know that he was going to do whatever suited him. He walked away briefly after getting me aroused with his caresses and lit a long tapered candle from the top of his toolbox. Then he walked around the room, lighting more candles with the first one; if he lit one, it seemed like he lit 20. With darkness now coming in through the windows, the luminosity of the candles made the room take on a passionate warmth. I felt like the candles were being lit around me, my eyes straining less and the features of the room now crystal clear to me. My bulging cock that he had stroked was still confined behind my briefs and the zipper of my jeans as he walked away from me towards the rolling toolbox. Finally, the helmet came off, and he turned to me. I expected a great smile like a movie star or something but there was no expression, just a day’s worth of facial hair that was darker than the dirty blond on top of his head. He pulled a weight bench in front of me; one with an adjustable back like those used for doing an incline bench press, positioning it so that when he sat on it, his leather covered legs almost touched my thighs. He unzipped the top half of his leather suit revealing a gray sweaty nylon Adidas tank top. A few strands of light brown hair peaked above the collar of the shirt as he took his right hand and reached for his left nipple while his left hand went for my crotch. He stared up at me, while his hand concentrated on my package. I knew my cock was leaking pre-cum as he touched me. He pulled down the leather top and removed his arms from the sleeves, revealing just a trace of a thin patch of hair in his pits. He flexed his arms in front of me, leaning his neck to the left to lick his bicep and then into the near hairless pit. I wanted to be that tongue, to taste the mingling of musk and sweat and leather that was trapped there. I looked at him, I watched him as his still gloved hands caressed his nipples through the tank top clinging to his form. He reached for the collar of his tank top and pulled at it with both hands till it tore, revealing his magnificent chest. He could have been on the cover of any men’s exercise magazine. All I could do was watch. I wanted to cum but I couldn’t mentally will myself to do it, at least not yet. He reached under to a tray welded onto the bottom of the bench and produced three white pillar candles of varying sizes and lit them with a lighter. He also produced a little brown bottle of amyl nitrate and offered it to me. I nodded yes and he stood and held the bottle to each nostril for me while pinching the opposite one shut gently with his gloved fingers. The aroma of the poppers and leather mingling made my mind reel as I watched him make himself high and kiss me hard as I stood there helpless. His tongue plowed through my mouth and then down over my own biceps just as he had done to himself. He bit my nipples through my t-shirt, the gloves touching my abs, my crotch, my ass and back up to my pecs. He stood back and tore my shirt and went down on my nipples again then up to my pits and down my muscled arms. Finally, I started to feel his body come in contact with mine as I had fantasized. He gently stroked my face, not saying a word and let his fingers touch my lips; teasing me to thrust my tongue out to taste them. He gave himself and then me another dose of poppers, and then settled down on the inclined bench. As he sat I noticed it wasn’t really a tank top he was wearing but rather a wrestling singlet with an impressive bulge at his crotch. He removed the straps that held the singlet over his shoulders and let them fall, his cock almost popping out. I was hypnotized by the red, white and black gloves, watching their every motion for they pointed to where pleasure would come from next. He stroked his cock through the gray fabric while stroking mine. I suppressed the urge to cum cause I couldn’t imagine how he would make himself cum. It was becoming obvious to me that this was all about him and I was just there for his stimulation and pleasure, which was becoming my own gratification. His eyes locked on mine and I didn’t see his hand go down and pick up the lit candle. He held the candle in his right hand let the wax drip on his left pec, one drop at a time. He only winced and moaned, the first sounds to come from him the entire evening. Soon the wax drops began to stream down to his chest, forming a white shell on his perfect pecs, those drops that didn’t cling to his chest formed tiny rivulets down over his abs. He put the first candle down and reached for my zipper and set my cock free of its cotton confines. He pulled it out and stroked it, squeezing the pre-cum out of its head onto his gloved fingertips and raising them to his lips. He leaned forward and took my cock in his mouth and pulled a long clear strand of pre-cum from the head of my dick back to his tongue as he reclined back on the weight bench. The strand of pre-cum broke as he reached for my cock with his left hand and began to stimulate it with a circular rubbing motion on the sensitive glans part. His right hand fetched another candle and the ritual of coating his right pec in wax continued while he jacked me off. As the wax from the second cooled and caked on him, he stood and kissed me again, his waxy chest pressing against my hairy Italian pecs. He backed away again and finished stripping out of his leathers and singlet, casting them in a heap on the floor to one side and put his boots back on. As he turned and faced me, I saw his engorged cock for the first time. It wasn’t massive, maybe 8” or so. Perhaps it looked bigger cause his balls were shaved and the whole package was encircled in a massive chrome cock ring. He straddled his weight bench again and began to jack himself off while I watched, unable to assist personally. He jacked with his gloved left hand while the right hand picked up another candle and let random drops of wax fall wherever his hand carried the candle that was turned horizontal. With the wax spent all over him, he put the candle down and moved his right fingers down to his crack and started playing with his ass. His fingers had no trouble finding the target he was looking for there as he raised his knees to his chest. I was going to lose it soon as I watched first one and then two gloved fingers go in that perfect hole. Oh, to be those fingers. He stood up from the bench and turned it around 180 degrees so that the raised back was in front of me. After dropping the pad to a lower angle he leaned face down on the pad, his perfect ass ready for my personal inspection. The fingers returned, pulling his crack apart, showing me its perfection, his fingers teasing his hole. He stood up and walked over to the big toolbox on wheels. The drawers opened and he returned with a dildo that he slicked up with leather-scented lube. He greased it in front of my eyes, his eyes teasing me, teasing me that he knew that I wanted that dildo to be my dick. And that he knew where I wanted my dick to be. Another dose from the little brown bottle as he turned around and returned to his new position on the weight bench. The black dildo entered that perfect hole without a sound from its owner. My own cock throbbed and bounced as I watched what it wanted to do, where it wanted to be. The dildo owner’s hands worked it like an expert, slowly, then deeper, then faster, then faster and deeper until its base almost disappeared. The dildo owner stood up and turned around kissing me, jerking our cocks together. Carefully, he knelt down and unbuckled the restraint around my right leg and started pulling my pants down, pausing to untie and remove my shoe. With my shoe off, he removed my right leg and briefs and repeated the process on my left side, re-securing each ankle and putting each shoe back on. He kissed me more and turned away, pausing to remove his anal occupant. He pushed a bench similar to his behind me; I felt its coldness on my hot ass. He tilted it so the ass pad slid under my ass and crotch and removed the post that held the ass pad so that just the back pad was still on the bench. The clanking sound of chain was next, two lengths of heavyweight chain draped over the cross bar of the cable crossover machine. On the rack of the weight bench rested an Olympic bar and I could hear the big weight plates being loaded on each side. There must have been at least 180 lb racked on each side. Next, my wrists were unhitched for the first time since I got there and re-positioned with leather straps to the weight bar so that I couldn’t move them. My legs were unhitched but only to be re-attached to the overhead chains with padlocks. A spreader bar was attached just above each ankle forcing my legs to remain open. I felt the gloved hands on the insides of my hairy muscular thighs and felt a degree of re-assurance even though not a word had been uttered from him. I was comfortable but not usually a bottom. Rarely a bottom. Almost never a bottom. But not a virgin. Then again, I will flip for the right guy. And this was the hottest and rightest guy to get me in this position. I heard the wheels of something, guessing it was the big toolbox being rolled closer. He returned and bent over his weight bench to reveal a butt plug that he was slowly inserting in his ass. Once it was in he dropped between my legs until I felt his gloved hand on my cock, stroking me, caressing my hairy balls. Squeezing my balls, squeezing my balls harder, his free hand moving down to my ass crack and playing with it. Disappearing again and hearing fabric ripping he returned, with a piece of the sweaty Adidas gear and a long strip of leather ribbon. He balled up most of the piece of nylon singlet and put it into my mouth and secured it in place by wrapping the leather strip around my head several times. The last thing he did was to take an eyedropper full of poppers and add it to the sweat of the fabric and let it soak in so every breath I drew would have the evaporating amyl nitrate. It didn’t take long for the poppers to work on me. I closed my eyes and felt the gloves go to work in my crotch, mostly on my ass, occasionally stroking my cock and squeezing my balls in between. His thumb entered me and I didn’t resist and then the other fingers, sometimes individually, sometimes together, occasionally fingers from each hand. I was very relaxed and very attuned to my surroundings. I heard the drawers on the toolbox open and close and at one point heard the distinctive rip of a condom wrapper. I felt my insides get lubed and stretched and probed. I was fully expecting a dildo until I felt the hardness and the warmth of his cock pressing on me. I relaxed to let him in and he pushed. He pushed until I felt the metal of the cockring on my butt. I am tight but it didn’t hurt at all. He knew what to do and how. Just like I watched the dildo go in and out of his ass, he did the same to me…slowly, deeper, then faster, then a little deeper. Still there was not a word from him, just an occasional moan or grunt. He stroked me as he fucked my ass and I was in heaven. It wouldn’t take much longer of his treatment to involuntarily trigger my release. “God you are tight,” were the first words he voiced to me all night. “We are going to have to do something about that.” He yanked his cock out and I could hear him tear the condom off as he walked to the toolbox. I couldn’t talk since I had the Adidas gag as he stood over me with the medicine dropper again. The rush started racing in my head again and I could feel my ass being probed by something long and not as warm as a human cock. The gloved hand stroked my cock, almost to the point of no return as my ass was probed deeper and deeper. I loved the feeling of being on the verge of orgasm while my ass was being played with. Sometimes I felt what was in me being jiggled, turned and twisted or just thrust further in. I was in a place I had never been before. I looked to my left and saw a man with his legs forcefully spread, the motorcycle stud sitting on a short rolling stool, jamming a big long dildo in an ass, occasionally stroking a dick or his own. It was an out of body experience like I was watching him do this to somebody else but feeling every action he took before I realized through the fog of the poppers that there was a big mirror on the back of the toolbox and I could watch what he was doing to my ass and I was loving it. I focused on him, watching this perfect human machine work on me. I watched his muscles move with each stroke. I caught glimpses of the wax that was starting to rub off. He was clearly enjoying himself and I enjoyed watching him and enjoyed pleasing him with my ass. He pulled out the dildo that was working me and got another, thicker and longer than the double header currently in me. He took a hit of poppers and squeezed some into the medicine dropper to give me another dose. I looked in the mirror and watched him squeeze the butt plug out of his own ass. He took his fingers and stretched open my hole before it clamped down again and got a few inches of the bigger dildo in me as I braced myself for its onslaught. He worked it in a few inches until it held on its own. He reached for a piece of leathers strap and tied the portion that remained outside to my thick muscular thigh. I squirmed cause I wanted more of it. Motorcycle man got up pushing his stool out of the way. He turned his weight bench back to its original position so it was facing me. He got on the bench and grabbed the dildo hanging out of me and pushed it further into me as he leaned back. With another hit of poppers delivered to each of us, he reclined back and grabbed the free end of the double dildo and started to find his own hole with it. I watched in the mirror as it disappeared into him and began to squirm for all I was worth. This was as close to fucking him as I was going to get and I wanted to give him all I could. He reciprocated and pushed more of it into me. We took turns trying to see who could make the other take more. Usually it was him because he had the luxury of being able to move more and thrust more. But big thrusts also made it go up inside of him too, which was as pleasurable to him as it was to me. Slowly, he stood up, reaching down, holding it in place, he rotated his hips slowly, always maintaining contact with the dildo until his back faced me and he began thrusting himself in earnest, my guts taking a battering as he took one of his own. Each thrust was actually burying it further in me until he stepped way and checked his handy work. He bent over and showed me his stretched hole before he slowly worked one, two, three, four and five fingers in his hole. His entire hand almost disappeared. I looked at the mirror and judged that there was more dildo in me than out and he took his hand out of his ass and started playing with the dildo gingerly while stroking me with his free hand. Holding out much more was going to be difficult but he knew how to work me. He could feel the tension start in me as my orgasm swelled and backed off to gentler pace. “Push it out if you want to get fisted,” was the second sentence of the evening from him. I pushed. Everything tonight felt so good and he was an expert I decided that if I ever wanted to experience this, he was the go-to man for the job. More poppers from the eyedropper. I inhaled as intensely as I could through the stinky rag gagging my mouth. I felt his fingers slowly enter me. His hand turned gently, the leather glove still Velcroed in place. I waited and braced myself for what I thought would be an onslaught of pain only experienced by women at childbirth but rather only experienced mild discomfort as he navigated the fattest part of his hand inside of me past my sphincter and then my ass clamped. I lifted my ass to wiggle. The sensational feeling defied description. I could feel his fingers exploring inside of me until he found my prostate gland. He massaged it repeatedly, touched its almond shape and put his mouth on my cock while he gently worked my insides. This time there was no stopping my orgasm. He knew he was going to make it happen and let go of my cock with his mouth and let it flail in orgasm. My cock shook as it came. Spurts jetted out of it like I have never seen before in quantities I had never seen before. My cum was airborne, spraying him, me and the room in white globs As my orgasm ebbed I waited for the inevitable, the removal. His motions and actions were gentle and re-assuring as he pulled out. Once removed, he went back to the toolbox and removed a monster dildo with a suction cup base. He partially released me and I sat up, and though spent, I watched him squat over the dildo that gripped the seat of the weight bench. He began to ride it, almost in a bouncing manner and picked up the candles again, one at a time and letting wax coat his nearly smooth body while his free hand jerked his cock. His eyes rolled back into his head, signaling his impending orgasm. He put the candle down and held out his hand a few inches from his cock, which he stroked feverishly. With a sharp inspiration, he shot gobs of white cum onto the black glove, which he proceeded to massage into his left bicep. He squeezed more out onto the left glove and massaged the remains into his right bicep and stood up. He walked over and released me and began to kiss me as he stood me up, finally free of my confines. I was all over him, finally able to savor his body, his scent and taste. His sweat and my sweat had mingled, our cum mingled and most of all, his leather and musky scent were mine to enjoy now. I reveled in it until, while carrying one of the candles, he led me down a hallway to a bathroom and turned on the shower. Lit by the glow of the candle, we stepped into the steamy fog and washed each other with considerable kissing between the latherings. After toweling off, he led me further down the hall to his bedroom area and we were fast asleep in each other’s arms. In the morning, he gave me a pair of gym shorts and put some on himself before he led me further down the hallway to his main living quarters. This part of the vacant warehouse had been converted to a luxury loft style living space. The morning sunshine made the past night seem so distant, so far away even though it all took place in the opposite direction down the hall. At least I thought it had. He brewed coffee and started to prepare breakfast just as I do when I want to sleep with a trick again. Was this his way too? His culinary skills almost rivaled mine as shown by the fabulous meal he served me while we talked about our jobs, well mostly mine and other stuff. He knew I was firefighter. He had seen me tillering the ladder truck around DuPont. He had seen me in the bars a few times here and there. How did I ever miss him? He told me his name was Adam. And there was an electricity and connectivity with Adam that I hadn’t felt for months if not years. I didn’t want to stop gazing at him. He was handsome but not a pretty man like in a men’s fashion catalog. I felt his gaze on me too as I stood and cleared the dishes from the table and began to help him clean up the breakfast mess. He stood also and went to his stereo and began to play a CD that I found extremely relaxing, like I was at Sunday brunch in an upscale downtown restaurant. He continued to ask me countless questions about my job ranging from what got me interested to what was the most dangerous situation I had ever been in. I told him I thought last night had seemed a little dangerous at first. He smiled and came over and gently kissed me while I dried the dishes. I looked up at the kitchen clock and saw how late it had become. I still had a few errands to do and rest up before I went to work the next morning. Not wanting to leave but knowing I had a mission to accomplish I politely began a graceful exit from my host. He understood and led me to a large walk-in closet between the great room and bathroom. Inside the closet, he removed a solid black leather motorcycle suit from a hanger and beckoned for me to try it on. It felt so good and fit like a glove. After I realized he had probably worn it himself I was hard again thinking about it. I envisioned the two of us clad in leather going at each other with reckless abandon. He asked if I had boots and I answered yes snapping back to reality. Adam led me to the shower and I proceeded to cleanse myself. Upon exiting I found my jeans and shoes along with a pair of his clean boxers and a white t-shirt for me to wear home. He watched me dress, sitting there in just his black Nike shorts. My heart and mind were falling for him and hard. What was it: His grace, his charm, his sex? All of it? All of him? I dressed slowly to prolong being with him. But he and I knew the time had come to depart. He escorted me through the old warehouse corridors to my car, by-passing the room where the past night’s events occurred. Before the roll-up door opened, we kissed hard and long. I walked down the steps to my car, keeping my eyes on him and fumbling for my keys. Traveling out of southeast DC towards my own home in nearby Arlington, the events of the prior night replayed through my head like a giant VCR on slo-mo. I noticed the t-shirt he gave me had a pocket over the left pec with a white piece of paper folded inside that I failed to detect. I pulled it out and unfolded it. In a bold block print on crisp stationery he wrote, “Trade you a ride on your fire truck for a ride on my motorcycle…Adam.” And his phone number. I punched the accelerator and headed home.