Gay Erotic Stories

Piers fixed the right ankle restraint, and then the left, and Mike was fully displayed in all his glory and beauty. In Piers’ earphones, he heard the familiar disembodied voice giving the reading, averaging the current inputs from the spectators moving their dials, but what the voice was saying was, in Piers’ experience, almost never heard: “Nine point five. [pause] Nine point six. [pause]. Nine point five. [pause] Nine point six.” They loved him! Loved him! It was very, very rare to get an **average** rating of 9; and in Piers’ experience any ratings even fractionally above nine were almost unheard of, except in the extremities of a session. But he had not even touched Mike and already almost all of the observers had turned their dials to Ten. There had been many, many beautifully developed bodies on this bed before, and men with beautiful faces to go with them. This was something else. It had to be something in Mike’s balance and perfection, his openness and confidence, his ingenuous grace, his willingness to meet every eye with gentleness, without any tincture of arrogance or condescension. Piers was amazed at the readings, but in some deep way, not wholly surprised, since right on the train at the Knightsbridge station he had instantly sensed something in Mike when first he caught his eye. Sensitives call it “aura.”

Piers put out his hand and rested it in the thick hair of Mike’s left calf. With that, alone, the voice in his earpiece reported “Nine point seven. Nine point eight. Nine point seven. Nine point eight.” With all his experience in this line, Piers hardly knew what to do at this point, but it was clear that this was going to be an unprecedented hour-long session, and that Mike might need very careful management to stay perfectly at the top of his condition without there being a conclusion prior to the end of the hour. And to keep Members totally involved with a single Player for a full hour was more or less outside of his experience. But that would be his goal.

Piers began threading his long, elegant fingers through the hair on Mike’s right calf now, and received similar or even slightly higher numbers reported into his ear. He moved up to Mike’s right forearm, pinioned on the bed above his head, and stroked the furry wrist, and then the large-bellied bicep. It was when he first dragged his fingertips into Mike’s right axilla, through the thickly curling dark blond hair of his armpit, that Piers first heard the statistically improbable “Nine point nine. Ten. Ten.” for the first time. Mike looked up at Piers and smiled most sweetly. Despite his better judgment, Piers could not resist! He again leaned in to Mike and, taking his face in his two hands, gave him a deep and profound kiss. He knew damn well that this sort of manoeuvre tended to frustrate at least some viewers, whose line of vision was obscured, and in any case some Members inevitably had less-developed romantic senses than others and they far preferred action, action, action. Yet in his earpiece he heard only “Ten. Ten. Ten.”

Henceforth, Piers realized, he could just ignore the reports in his earpiece. It was clear that the traditional scaling was just inadequate for Mike.

Breaking the kiss, Piers kissed Mike’s neck, and in a new series of fairly quick kissed descended onto his chest, now with the fingers of both hands raking gently through the thick dark gold hair, and when Piers jumped to Mike’s right nipple, Mike gave a jerk against his bonds. Again, because kissing and mouth work was not nearly so visual as stroking and massaging, Piers resisted his own impelling desire to give Mike’s entire body a tongue bath, just for his own satisfaction. So he returned to stroking and massaging Mike’s massive furry chest, his ten fingers acting as surrogates for the 240 fingers of the assembled spectators.

It was just then that he first splat of cum landed on Mike’s lower left leg from somewhere above. Mike looked up to the railing and searching for the onlooker who was just concluding his powerful stroking; he smiled to him and nodded. The man, a somewhat slender guy of about 30, with dark curls falling over his forehead, dressed in a terry robe now wide open, dropped it to the floor to stand there nude, revealing a very well-constructed muscular body. Soon, and it was highly exceptional at English Handicrafts -- not a single observer, however shy or diffident, would retain a single garment. He could not believe that he had been personally acknowledged by Mike. In fact, some, even many, Players recoiled a little from their spectators’ seminal tributes, but not Mike. Once he had decided to participate in this activity, he was infinitely gracious and all-accepting. That was Mike all over: In for a penny, in for a pound.

Trailing his fingers down Mike’s amazing abdomen, through the thickest part of the furry center line, Piers temporarily suspended contact with Mike as he repositioned himself between Mike’s big legs. Standing as far away from Mike’s belly as practical in order not to spoil the view of any more of the spectators than absolutely necessary. He stroked the tangle of dark golden or light brown hair that covered Mike’s lower belly, with one hand on either side of Mike’s genitals. In the process, with his left and right forefingers, he trivially, teasingly, touched his phallus for the first time. Mike smiled broadly, and looked about the upper and lower rings of faces.

With his right hand, Piers gently enfolded as much of Mike’s cock as he could. As a matter of fact, his thumb and fingers could encircle only a portion of it, but it was enough to elicit gasps of excitement from the spectators, and for almost the first time, those who were tuned to the channel nine, heard a low, guttural, “Yeah!” from Mike.

With practiced hand, and great calculation, Piers tightened his grasp somewhat, and gave a slow, upward stroke. Just one, and he removed his hand and again threaded his fingers in Mike’s lush bush. Another and another splat of cum fell onto Mike’s legs from above, and again, Mike searched the perimeter of the railing to seek out the face of the ecstatic shooters, and he smiled. In their earphones they could hear Mike’s rich baritone softly, “Okay, Guys!”

Now Piers realized that Mike was a very stalwart guy and with only reasonable management he should be able to produce a hell of a show. So, almost recklessly, Piers generously applied lube to his hands and seized Mike’s phallus with both of them, and gave Mike about a dozen slow, luxurious strokes, in the process pulling his erection far away from his body, such that, using considerable pressure he extended it nearly to ninety degrees. The veins on the dorsal side--the side away from his balls and urethra--popped out distinctly as his phallus resisted the pull downward. In their earpieces the spectators heard a very low “Yeah, yeah, yeah, That’s it,” but Piers ignored Mike’s encouragement: he had his own agenda, and he altogether ceased touching Mike’s cock, letting it snap back and slap against his belly.

Piers then gracefully squatted, right between Mike’s legs, and trying to assure the best view for all, reached up with his right hand and cupped Mike’s big balls. In his well-lubed palm, they slid around a little until they found a stable position, whereupon Piers removed his hand and they returned to rest against between his legs. With his fingertips he stroked first the left and then the right, and in the earpieces spectators heard Mike: “Ah, aah, aahhhh, aaahhhhh.” More cum fell onto the bed, and Mike, and Piers. A bit fell onto Mike’s chest, and feeling it, Mike pleasantly nodded to the athletic-looking 40 year old brunette who was still giving another couple of final pumps around the upper railing.

From his crouch, Piers raised himself slightly, and then kissed Mike’s furry left inner thigh. It rather came as a surprise to Mike and he flinched a bit, and then relaxed. Then Piers did the same up and down the inner length of Mike’s right thigh, and a gratified moan was heard by the spectators on their earpieces.

Estimating that Mike had had sufficient time to move back from a point of danger, Piers again grasped his cock; this time with his right hand only, newly refreshed with lube, and began a tortuous series of strokes. Knowing exactly what he was doing, Piers opened fist until it only barely touched Mike’s cock. Really, it didn’t touch Mike’s cock except at an accidental point here or there, and, of course, it wasn’t really a fist anymore either, since shape his forefinger and thumb formed was a quite open and incomplete circle. But starting from the base of his cock, he slowly, slowly moved his hand right up to Mike’s cockhead. The important part, the tricky part, was that the touching along the shaft was very, very slight and discontinuous: but absolutely maddening for Mike. Piers repeated the move again, and again, and again, and again: In fact for twenty iterations! Mike’s moans were louder than before and he arched his back as and it appeared that he was trying to thrust with his hips, but to no avail.

Then Piers administered ten firm and comparatively fast strokes, and Mike showed both satisfaction and tension in his face, but all too soon (for him!) Piers returned to the infinitely frustrating slow, slight, open strokes that teased him so mercilessly. In fact, he was so bound up in this madness that he closed his eyes and almost grimaced and, for once, failed to acknowledge gracefully new jets of semen that fell on his right arm and left lower leg almost simultaneously. Finally, finally (!) Piers completed another set of twenty careful but light and slight strokes, and again administered ten firm and decently fast strokes, and Mike’s accustomed smile returned and his dimples reappeared. But, poor Mike! Piers began a third set of twenty slow, slow, light and slight strokes. He then gave Mike only three firm and fast strokes and receded entirely. Mike could hardly believe his ‘cruelty,’ raising up his head and staring down at Piers, still between his legs.

Piers moved back to Mike’s head, and stroked his face and hair. With his palms wide open, he stroked Mike’s chest, and bent down and kissed him in his axillae, first his left armpit, and then his right. The thick hair there lay in very wet curls, flooded with Mike’s intensely masculine scent. With Mike’s odor and sweat on his face and lips, he planted another kiss on Mike’s mouth, and then, returned to his previous station between Mike’s legs. There he re-lubed and began another series of masturbatory strokes: Or was it simply torture. For ordinary Players, the spectators’ patience would have been as short as Mike’s, but he held them in some sort of special spell, and Piers continued to hear “Ten. Ten. Nine point nine. Ten.” in his earpiece. And so he continued. Philosophically this episode constituted a “series,” but in reality, each stroke was separate and individual. The first was slow, very slow, and his hand moved from the very root of the phallus to the very tip of the cockhead, and he forced it right off the end. The second began at the cockhead, onto which Piers slowly forced his heavily lubed fist. It was supremely slow. It took a full minute before the tip of his cockhead even slightly reappeared between his fingers and thumb, and it was approximately three minutes before his fist once again was firmly resting at the very base of his cock. Through the microphone Mike’s breathing was easily picked up as heavy and regular.

The third stroke started from where the second had ended, but this one was not only slow (but not nearly so slow at the previous one), Piers imparted a notable counterclockwise twist to his fist as he went upward. About a third of the way up he reversed the twist, and the final third of the stroke was again counterclockwise. In the earpieces, Mike: “Oh my god.” The fourth stroke was two-handed, and again remarkably slow. It was in times like these that the restraints were so useful, not only to assure a beautiful display, and also to lend an air of fantasy to the whole experience, but had Mike not been restrained, surely at this point he would have done something, whatever, to satisfy himself, whether to compel Piers to continue to conclusion or take the work into his own hands. But Mike was safely in bonds and unable to affect Piers’ plans in any way.

By now it was 5.45, but the spectators’ dials were still nearly all set on 10, and Mike’s luxuriant body hair, whether on his chest or belly or arms or legs, was matted here and there by spunk from the spectators from above, and there were several runnels down his sides where their spunk had dripped. (Only occasionally, but rarely, did a jet from a spectator at the lower level arc up onto Mike’s body.)

Piers had taken the measure of his man, and now Piers thought it safe to gratify himself, and Mike, and most of the spectators by taking Mike’s cock in his mouth. He grasped the shaft fairly low, and pulled it away from Mike’s body, so that was at a right angle from his belly. And in this position, Piers opened his mouth wide and licked Mike’s cockhead, bottom first and moving a little to the side, he swirled his tongue over the flaring front, and the veriest tip of it. Mike’s gasp was easily audible to all. By now every set of earplugs was reporting Channel 9. Then using his hand and his mouth together, Piers gave him at least the beginnings of a classic blowjob. But considering Mike’s condition, he could only chance a very, very slow-motion version.

Piers’ hand remained firmly encircled (as much as possible anyway) around the base of the very beautiful rigid cock, his little finger and ring finger almost completely lost within Mike’s luxuriant pubic hair, and Piers applied his tightly pursed lips to just the tip of the cockhead, and, moving his head down slightly, forced his lips open as they expanded across the impressive spread of his flaring glans; and then, suddenly, Mike’s coronal ridge disappeared behind Piers’ lips. Unfortunately, only the spectators at the lower level could see this beautiful action in detail, and some of them crouched a bit around the railing the better to view it. From the upper railing, the observers could only impute the particulars from the way that Piers’ head very, very slowly descended upon Mike’s crotch. And no one could actually see what Piers was doing with his tongue, once his mouth had enveloped Mike’s cockhead, but Mike could feel it exquisitely.

While the lips firmly grip the shaft of the penis, and smoothly, slowly but intensely stimulate a moving circumferential region on the shaft, the expert fellator’s tongue is a multifaceted tool of pleasure giving. It can be soft and pliant, smoothly conforming to every micro-feature of the phallus it caresses. The expert can also cause the tongue instantly to alter from a smooth, warm, wet blanket that caresses, to a firm organ full of tension, sharply pointed, and capable of intensely concentrated action, focused upon just the tiny frenulum near the tip of the ventral side of the cock, where the two edges of the glans meet, say; or upon just the outside rim of the corona; to a very rapidly fluttering tool that can tease and excite the most sensitive portion of a man’s cock with remarkable precision and effectiveness.

Or the expert can more or less withhold lingual contact from the cockhead, and only now and then, unpredictably, softly, briefly apply his tongue to the cock lovingly enveloped by his mouth. And we haven’t even spoken of the arts of suction on the one hand and blowing, or air games, on the other. None of the spectators, even the best situated, could see what was going on behind Piers’ lips: but Mike could feel every tiniest nuance of Piers’ sophisticated expertise, and he made no effort to restrain his cries of ecstasy. The spectators wouldn’t have needed audio pickup and phones to hear his “Yes, YES, YES!!!, *Y*E*S*! Oh, MY, GOD!!!!” But of course they would not have wished to forego them so that they could also hear the barely audible gasps and moans that were intercalated. Needless to say, because of Mike’s size, Piers’ range of lingual activity was somewhat limited. With a smaller penis in his mouth he was able to exercise his arts at a much higher level; but in the present case, this didn’t matter much. Of course as Piers slowly, infinitely slowly, progressed up and down Mike’s shaft with his lips, he maintained his fist around the base of Mike’s cock and slowly and very firmly slid the flexible surface skin over the rigid cock, causing Mike’s balls to travel up and down and, to a certain extent, dance in air.

But Piers was playing a hazardous game. If he miscalculated, and Mike exploded in his mouth, the disappointment to the spectators could be huge. So for the eight or so minutes or remaining in the hour, he reverted to the classic hand job, highly visible to the spectators, highly gratifying to them, and, importantly, completely under his expert control.

As he resumed his slow, expert teasing of the unusually sexy and handsome Player, cum began raining down from the upper railing as never before, Splat! splat! splat! You might have imagined that Mike, in his passion, supremely teased by Piers’ calculating plans, would have been beyond reacting to anything else as long as Piers’ grip encircled his cock; but even in extremis, Mike’s sense of fellow-feeling that had brought him to this odd situation did not desert him, and, with his spectators all around him jacking like crazy now, he caught the eye of every single one. Most of them attempted, as best they could, to time their last release to his, but this fine plan was not always achievable, even by those with the strongest wills, and he could tell from the mad, frenzied strokes which ones were at the very edge of orgasm, and whenever he could, he locked eyes with them, and not infrequently could see a jet of cum sail through the air and on to his leg or side or occasionally his chest. “Yeah, man,” or “You go, guy,” he’d mutter, to the amazed delight of the auditors, and intense gratification of the creator of and contributor of the sticky gift.

Finally, the unprecedented hour drew to its close, and Piers subtly changed speed of his stroking, and perhaps added some extra palm work on Mike’s glans, too, and what the auditors heard in their phones was a series of near desperate gasps from Mike. They could see, as easily as Mike felt, that the end was very, very near, and there was a virtual rain of cum onto Mike and Piers and the bed as almost every spectator was able to get off one more climactic time; and finally, under Piers’ precise management, Mike’s body stiffened, his back arched far off the bed, his arms and legs strained against their bonds, and a gigantic stream of cum jetted from his cock and onto Mike’s forehead and into his golden hair. And then, under Piers’ expert ministration, Mike lay another rope of semen across his chest hair, now long matted with spectators? cum; and then another jet of cum, lying mainly about Mike’s navel. Piers in effect dug deeply one more time, and one could see Mike almost straining, now, sending another jet of cum onto his chest again, and smiled very broadly all around the railings, above and below.

The place was in fucking pandemonium! The spectators did not merely clap, they pounded the railing, and they stomped their feet, and they cheered and whistled! From the lower level Mike heard “Hip, Hip...” and then from everywhere, “HURRAH!” The raucous applause lasted five minutes at least in a venue where a good round of clapping was usually considered a handsome tribute. Mike looked into every face and smiled and nodded.

At last Piers loosened Mike’s wrist restraints, and Mike sat upright and graciously “like a royal in a parade” saluted modestly with his arms. As he sat up, the multifarious streams of cum that had been running down his sides, mostly now changed their courses toward his waist. He was truly a sloppy mess, but a very, very heroic one.

Piers loosened his ankles, and Mike gracefully stepped down from the bed, generously took a small bow, and with another arm salute, retired to the dressing room, absolutely nude, giving the spectators a final view of his beautiful big legs, his strong round butt covered in hair, his broad shoulders tapering to his boyish waist, and then he disappeared from view.

Piers, too, had been splattered with more cum than he had ever experienced before. And he, uniquely among all the participants in the Beckham Arena, was still rigid with unsatisfied lust as he followed Mike into the dressing room.

Mike, not really knowing the drill, asked him if he had another appearance to make this afternoon, and Piers said, no, as part of the top management of English Handicrafts, it was very exceptional for him to make any kind of an appearance any more. So Mike, as generous a man as god ever created, goes “Well, we definitely have to do something about that!” gesturing toward Piers’ throbbing cock. Piers had been for one full hour in a state of absolute perfect erection.

Though Mike himself was nearly exhausted from the long and incredibly intense experience in the Beckham, and he felt himself almost completely drained by Piers’ hugely expert final milking, he felt himself overcome by a feeling of compassion for Piers’ situation, and gratitude, too, for his kindness, and expertise; and, it’s true, a new stirring deep within himself even after all that, stimulated by Piers’ lean, muscular, well-made body, his strikingly good looking face, and his cock, handsome and perfect. Throbbing at a 45-degree angle from his bush of dense, coppery pubic hair, his cock was a roadmap of big, fat veins.

Mike said, “Lie down,” and Piers obeyed, spreading his arms and legs wide upon the carpet. Kneeling between Piers’ legs, Mike seized Piers’ cock in his big hand whose back was covered in golden hair. Piers said, “Mike, I know you have to be totally exhausted. You don’t need to do anything. But if you are so disposed, then don’t mind the fancy stuff, just for god’s sake get me OFF!”

He was wasting his words. Piers was at such a high state of readiness after his hour in the Beckham that Mike could almost certainly have brought him off in no more than a dozen ordinary strokes, and quite probably less, if well-designed and well-timed. But that was not Mike’s style. No matter how urgent Piers felt, Mike was relaxed, and with his big paw wrapped around Piers cock, he began slowly and expertly to pump him. It is true that he did not use the teasing dilatory tactics that Piers had; he did not abandon his cock to distract him by teasing his nipples or French kissing him or stroking his chest, or gently caressing his inner thighs, all with the design of delaying the inevitable. After all Piers had already had an hour’s worth of almost insupportable tension while managing Mike in the Beckham.

But at the same time, Mike was not just going to finish him off in sixty seconds. Instead he chose a decent and kindly middle path, of slow and deliberate stroking, but without further tactical delays. It was a matter of stroke, stroke, stroke, and wait; stroke, stroke with a twist, stroke with a twist, stroke, and wait; and more of the same: elegant but within a framework of slow deliberate progress toward release. And managed this way it was probably seven minutes before Mike mercifully transitioned to an rhythm leading to an inevitable conclusion. And giving a final set of three quite quick and firm strokes the full length of his cock, Piers stiffened and jerked and instantly, all across Piers’ body lay a continuous string of cum, from his navel, across the trail of hair on his upper abdominals, across his chest hair, onto his chin, across his lips and onto his cheek. And then suddenly another, more discontinuous, stream lay slightly to the right of the first. And then Mike’s fist became all creamy with the remains of a third final explosion.

Piers panted and panted, unable to move. He was even unable to reopen his eyes, though he almost desperately wished to look into Mike’s face. From his kneeling position between Piers’ legs, Mike leaned forward, and put one arm on either side of Piers’ heaving chest, and leaned down and gently kissed him on the mouth. In the process his own spunky cock, now erect again, dragged across Piers’ softening and sloppy dick. But Mike’s kiss was not an invitation; it was a simple act of affection, for he would soon be late for his return to Allie in the hotel. Piers responded to his kiss with the most bittersweet feeling he had ever experienced in his life. He had only met Mike four hours ago, and chances were excellent that he would never see him again, but he was, frankly and unambiguously smitten. He felt, in his inward heart, that he was surely in love. He had in this business seen many beautiful men; indeed he had operated directly upon many of the most striking of them with their cocks in his fist or in his mouth. And while many of them--no, MOST of them--had excited his lust, often to a very high degree, none of them ever before had caused him the anguish and joy that Mike had spawned in him so effortlessly.

But Piers realized that Mike would, almost certainly, have to remain for him a beautiful and long-cherished memory, a shining ideal, and an image that he could, henceforth, forever call forward whenever he felt sexy and dreamy and wanted to beat off. There remained the possibility that somehow, somewhere, their paths might again cross, but it did not seem particularly likely.

Mike stood up and reached down his right arm to grasp Piers’, and to pull him up from the carpet, and then together they entered the shower. Under the warm and comfortable spray, they soaped each other up, and stroked each other’s body, and after an unprecedented amount of spunk slid from their bodies, they met in their first and only full-body embrace, Piers’ hands cupping Mike’s beautiful furry butt, and Mike holding Piers’ face to his in his hands, and giving him a deep and friendly kiss. “All right,” Mike thought, “I guess I can delay my return another ten minutes,” and Piers knelt in the shower before Mike’s great cock, once again as rigid and erect as ever, and he permitted Piers to gratify himself by fellating Mike to conclusion, while Mike lovingly stroked Piers’ hair, and soothingly encouraged him with sweet nothings.

When, under Piers’ urgency, using his hands and his lips and his tongue and all his arts of venery, Mike, with his fingers threaded through Piers’ hair or gently stroking his ears or chin, pumped his mouth full of his semen, it seemed almost more an act of magnimanity on Mike’s part, than of service on Piers’ part, though Mike was also very deeply gratified and would never forget Piers.

They finished their shower, toweled off and Mike put on his English footballer tee-shirt and his simple little shorts, his very low-cut socks and his English ‘trainers.’

(Piers got Mike’s California address, and by the time he and Allie returned home, there was a package containing an hour-long video of the proceedings in the Beckham Arena. Needless to say, Piers kept a copy for himself.)

And as Mike departed through the little bar in Old Compton Street downstairs, the barman handed him a packet containing one hundred pounds, or two and half time the highest fee ever before awarded any Player in the history of English Handicrafts. And Mike’s name remained in their database, posted against it a recorded spectator average a full standard deviation above any previous high average. He remained a topic of conversation among the regulars and from time to time a wistful member would ask Piers if he was ever coming back. That was a question Piers himself often enough asked himself.

When he got back to the hotel, Mike found Allie improving, but still under the weather. She felt only like taking a little chicken soup, which he ordered for her from room service. She was still slightly feverish, and she certainly didn't feel like sex. At least she didn't think so. But, pulling off his clothes, Mike crawled into the luxurious bed with her, and dimming the lights, told her the whole story of the afternoon. Though she was tired, even exhausted, from her "24-hour flu," she definitely responded to the fascinating story. Mike gently tugged off the simple little bed jacket that she had on, and bid her to lay back and relax. Just relax.

With his knees on either of her smooth athletic legs, his now erect cock lay right nuzzled between the very crotch of her legs, right up against her warm cunny, warmer than ever because of her slight fever. His cock was more or less clasped by her upper thighs, and its tip slightly rubbed against the soft long-fibre Egyptian cotton linens that were the hallmark of their small, luxurious hotel. Supporting his body with his arms on either side of her, but touching her nowhere else, he leaned down and gently kissed her lips. There too, he could detect her slight fever in the noticeable gradient between her lips' heat and his. She was responsive, but he did not wish to cause her to expend any effort, and after kissing her with infinite gentleness, he pulled his lips away a bit and whispered, "Relax. Relax."

He scooted backwards, and settled his entire big body between her legs. And for the next hour he gave her a complete and encyclopedic experience of cunnilingus. It was an exhibition of expert technique, it is true, with the highest interplay between Mike's actions and Allie's responses; but much more it was an expression of deepest, most profound love. Allie was exhausted from her illness, though recovering; but Mike arranged everything so that she merely lay quiet, arms and legs swaddled in the luxurious linens, while he brought her to climax after climax after climax after climax. And then finally, as she lay there deep in sexual fatigue, he gently, gently, gently stroked her flanks and arms and legs as she drifted into a heaven of sleep, borne there on a cloud of his abiding love.

The next day, she felt infinitely better, as good as new, and with the hundred pounds he bought her a sizable bottle of Deneuve.