Gay Erotic Stories

“Stop by the hotel about 11 PM. We can compare notes then.”

Sam Spade watched Brigid O'Shaugnessy walk out of his office. The thin fabric of her skirt revealed the jiggles of her voluptuous ass. Spade was strangely unmoved at the sight.

“Trouble,” he thought. “This dame’s trouble. Hell. All dames are trouble. Best to swear off them.”

Spade had not been lucky with women. O'Shaugnessy story was stupid and she had offered far too much money. Apparently, she thought that Spade and his partner were fools. But Archer had got himself dead, so maybe she was right. Spade reached down for the bottle of bourbon in the lower right hand drawer of his desk when the door burst open and an odd looking wiry young man of about 22 burst in. He was swimming in an oversized suit and an ugly sneer was pasted across his face. It was the Fat Man’s boy, Wilmer Cook. His heat, his muscle. Wilmer pointed a 45 at Spade.

“Gutman wants to see you,” he sneered with as much menace as he could muster.

“What does he want with me, Wilmer, when he has you?” Spade shot back. “I’m sure you’re more to his taste.”

The relationship between the boy and the older man was obvious. What the younger man got out of it was less so, but who knew what drove a faggot to do anything?

“Shut up, or I’ll give you a case of lead poisoning,” the gunsel threatened.

Spade smiled. “The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter,” he thought. Still, he rose and made his way around the desk. As he reached for his hat, he drove fist into the boy’s solar plexus. When he doubled over, Spade pulled the kid’s buttoned suit coat down over his arms, pinning them to his side. The gun went off, entering the floor an inch from Spade’s toes. He sent a right hook to the other’s jaw and the man crumpled to the floor.

Spade kicked the gun out of reach and started patting the man down. He had more iron on him than a Pittsburgh steelworker could produce in a year. The shoulder holster was empty, but he carried a derringer strapped to his left ankle. A 32 was strapped in belt holster at the small of his back. With some difficulty, Spade pulled the tangled suit coat away and removed the weapon. The kid moaned weakly. As a precaution, Spade opened the man’s shirt and pulled it down behind as he had with the suit jacket to keep the other’s arms entangled.

When Spade rolled him back over, he blinked in surprise. The kid’s oversized clothes and stature were deceiving. The boy’s torso, shoulders and arms were elegantly muscled. Spade had never seen so many individual muscles on a man before. “I’m glad I got the jump on him,” Spade thought. It was far from clear how he would fare wrestling this young guy, even with a weight advantage. The PI returned to frisking the boy’s legs. Through the baggy trousers, Spade could tell that the calves and thighs were comparably conditioned. Near the groin he found something hard and thin against the right thigh and something bulky and long against the left. They were not shaped the same. He opened the gunsel’s belt and reached in. The kid was not wearing underwear. Spade found a thin object taped to the right thigh. In the other pant leg was something else. He pulled the kid’s loafers off and yanked the pants down below the knees. Spade let out a snort.

Taped to the right leg was the barber’s razor that Spade had more or less expected. But lashed to the left leg was an eight inch long half-hard, uncut cock. It was in a kind of leather sheath, with the mushroom head sticking out of the open bottom. The sheath was tied to the thigh with leather thongs. Thick clear fluid was leaking out from the tip. A metal ring encircled the balls at the top of the scrotum. “Jesus!” Spade thought. “That better feel pretty good, because it’s gotta be a fucking pain is the ass to take a piss.” Spade peeled the tape away from the right thigh to remove the razor. In the tight quarters, his hands kept brushing against the other man’s balls and the encumbered cock. As he worked the razor off the other leg, Spade noticed that the head was protruding an inch farther out of the cock sheath. On a whim, he carefully placed the razor between the thongs and the thigh and snipped them away. The cock sprung up and slapped loudly against the kid’s abdomen, the head resting near the man’s navel.

“Well, kid,” Spade muttered. “I guess I see why Gutman overlooks your incompetence as a muscle guy.”

Spade became acutely aware of his own hardon. This was normal. He always got aroused during serious action—especially if involved hand-to-hand fighting. It was adrenaline or something. But it was different this time. He was staring down at a nearly naked man who himself had a raging and enormous hardon. Very weird--the other guy’s cock had swollen in thickness until it ballooned slightly at either end of the sheath. Spade shook his head and thought a minute.

Spade had planned to meet with Gutman on his own terms. He thought that he would just humiliate the gunsel by walking him in at the point of his own gun. Gutman would have to think twice before sicking him on the PI again. But now, with the guy lying virtually naked before him, Spade thought it would be even sweeter to bring him back like this.

The supine man moaned again, loudly this time. Given the size of his hardon, Spade couldn’t tell if it was in pain or pleasure. Spade finished undressing him and replaced the tangled shirt with a pair of cuffs. He looked his prisoner over once more. Without the deliberately twisted expression, the boy looked quite handsome—and even younger. He looked over the physique laid out before him. “Like and angel,” Spade thought. “Some Renaissance painter’s idea of an angel.” He wondered how much work it took to get your body in that kind of shape. Spade was himself in pretty good shape. Whenever he thought he was tending to fat, he worked out at the Athletic Club. (He had unlimited access because he had kept certain members of the Board out of prison some years earlier.) But like most “in-shape” guys, there was always a thin, softer layer between his muscles and his skin. Spade was clearly well muscled, but he was not a walking physiology textbook like the guy lying before him.

Spade knelt and ran his index finger along the abdominal ridges and valleys. He placed all of his fingertips on the other’s skin. The torso was completely hairless, but Spade could feel slight stubble between the pectoral mounds and just below the navel. The man shaved his body! Or maybe Gutman did it for him. What would that feel like? Spade ran his hands over the pectoral muscles. He glanced at the boy’s face. The angelic countenance was replaced by the usual twisted expression. The eyes snapped open.

“You like that, don’t you, shamus?” he sneered.

Spade flinched. “Don’t compliment yourself, faggot!” he announced. “I’m only interested in making sure you’re not a threat.”

“You’re mouth says one thing. Your dick says something else.” The younger man smirked and looked pointedly at the tent in Spades trousers.

“This is what you want, isn’t it,” Spade responded as he unzipped his fly. He pulled out his cock and waved it in the homo’s face.

“Where’s the rest of it?” the gunman taunted.

Spade had about five and a half inches of thick cock showing. He knew it was within the normal range. He had seen it all in the Athletic Club. But he also knew that everyone seemed to claim a lot more. It didn’t bother him. Usually. But then he had never been faced with a monster such as Wilmer sported. He knelt on either side of the boy’s chest. The head of his cock slapped across the kid’s face.

“Suck it,” he commanded.

“Fuck you!” came the reply.

Spade picked up the razor and placed it gently behind the other’s right ear. “Suck it, faggot,” he said, matter-of-factly. The gunsel started to open his mouth, then thought better of it. He reluctantly took the head of Spade's cock into his mouth. Spade forced the razor just a tad tighter against the ear to remind the kid what was at risk. The kid responded with more enthusiasm. Spade closed his eyes and imagined that he was being sucked dry by a two-dollar Hollywood Boulevard whore. After a minute or so, he raised the ante to five dollars, then ten, then… Spade moaned as the boy worked his organ. No whore had ever given him such a blowjob. He removed the razor from the other man’s ear and went down on his hands. He began pumping the mouth of the prone figure. At the end of each stroke, he could feel the kid’s throat opening, just a little, to take in the head of the thrusting rod. He pushed harder and harder into the face, trying to get deep into that sweet gullet, but never quite succeeding. Finally, Spade realized what he was doing and, frightened, pulled out.

“Get up,” Spade ordered. “We’re going to see your daddy.” Spade scooped up the razor again and snapped it open. Wilmer acquiesced and got to his feet. Spade spun him around to march him toward the door and the elevator. Then he caught sight of the boy's ass. It was hard and projected out from his back like two melons. Spade reached down and grabbed one with his hands. It was nothing like O'Shaugnessy lumpen hams. It was hard and hot.

Spade changed his mind and pushed the gunsel toward his desk. The PI grabbed him by the hair pushed his face into the blotter. He fumbled with the middle left hand drawer until he came up with his first aid kit. Snapping it open he found the tube of burn ointment. He bit the cap in his teeth and twisted the tube until it was free. A thin worm of white cream oozed out. He reached down between the cheeks and squeezed the tube hard. He dropped the tube and began searching with his middle finger. He found the hole and proceeded to work the cream into it. He positioned the head of his cock against the opening.

“Stop!” cried the gunsel. “I don’t take cocks. I’m a Top!”

“Right!” responded the shamus. “You’re the Mona Lisa. You’re even sporting the fucking Tower of Pisa. But I’m still putting my dick up your ass, faggot.”

With that, Spade thrust his hips forward. Nothing. The kid had his asshole clenched tight. Spade placed the razor against the other man’s throat and pushed again. This time he opened and the shamus’ cock went in like butter. Now, Spade had fucked women up the ass before. At first, this didn’t feel much different. But as he began pumping, the PI could feel the tightness enclosing him. When his hips slammed into the hard ass muscles, a tremor shook his body. He dropped the razor and reached around to clutch those pectorals. Again and again he pulled his cock out until only the head was inside and rammed it back in as hard as he could. The boy moved from passive acquiescence to active participation.

“Is that the best you can do, Shamus?” he taunted while jamming his ass back onto the PI’s pole. “Make me whimper!”

Spade didn’t know what else to do. He continued pumping with a vengeance. He reached down in front of his fuck toy and grasped the shaft. Another three inches or more protruded from the leather constraint. It was what? Nine inches at least. Probably more than ten. Spade found the head and rested the underside in the crook of his index finger. He squeezed the top of the head with his thumb. At first he tried to squeeze when he thrust inward, but he soon found himself out of phase, squeezing the cock on the outstroke. This drove the pinioned man into a frenzy.

“Oh fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he cried over and over. “Shit, man. Fucking shit. Stop it!. No, don’t stop! Oh fucking shit!”

The gunsel began to cum. Spade could feel the spasms across his muscled back as well as along his cock. The juice erupted from the constrained cock in needle like bursts that landed in the back of the kneehole in Spade’s desk. Zit. Zit. Zit. Ten times and more. All the while, Spade kept pounding that sweet ass with his hips. From somewhere deep within welled a release the likes of which Spade had never experienced. The white stuff gushed out from deep within him in a series of violent pulses. It filled the rectum and rushed back out onto Spade’s hops before dripping, slightly brown onto the floor.

Twenty minutes later, Spade and Wilmer were still sharing cigarettes. Spade’s back was resting against the desk. The boy’s head was in his lap. The twisted expression was gone. He told Spade of the years spent in quest of a jewel-encrusted golden bird. Many had died in pursuit of it. None of the San Francisco principles had ever seen it. The bird was expected to arrive shortly on a freighter from the Hong Kong. Spade thought he knew of an antique shop where he could find a reasonable duplicate. He and Wilmer would switch it for the real bird. He would arrange for the entire group to be apprehended by the police and stand trial for murder. He would let Wilmer get away and send the police in the wrong direction, while Wilmer hid out in Spade’s apartment.

“What can you get O'Shaugnessy for?” the boy asked

“Archer,” Spade said matter of factly.

“But I killed Archer!” he protested.

“Not you, sweetheart,” Spade said. “Maybe someone who looked a bit like you. Someone you used to be. Not you now, though.”

The boy looked doubtful.

“O'Shaugnessy can be made to take the fall. I’d bet the farm on it. I don’t think that they’ll hang her by that pretty little neck of hers, though. At least I hope they won’t. In any case, who cares?”

Spade leaned down and kissed the boy hungrily.