Sexy Gay Stories - Volume Five - three m/m short stories

teenager’s smooth taut thighs in both of his hands and rammed his cock into Trevor’s ass, rocking the kid to and fro on the car. Trevor desperately clutched at his buzzing nipples, getting reamed, getting split in two by Bill’s battering ram. His entire body swelled with erotic sensation, and he bleated at the big man to plow him even harder.
    Sweat beaded Bill’s face and coated his arms. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingernails into Trevor’s thighs, thrusting harder, faster, thumping his hard-muscled thighs against Trevor’s soft cheeks, relentlessly plugging the young man’s anus. Until both men just couldn’t take any more.
    Trevor grabbed up his flapping cock and stroked, just once. Hot semen spurted out of the tip of his dick, striping his face and his outstretched tongue, his heaving, shining chest.
    Just as Bill flung back his head and roared, his hammering cock exploding in Trevor’s gripping bung. He blasted sperm, blowing out his balls as he blew the young, wailing man totally apart.
    ‘Thanks for the lesson in police procedure,’ Trevor remarked afterwards, as Bill helped him off the trunk of the car by pulling him up by the dick.
    ‘No problem. Any time, kid,’ Bill responded, giving the teen’s prick one last affectionate squeeze. ‘And, by the way, there’s nothing wrong with your right brake light. I just noticed your “suspicious behaviour” towards me at that barbecue a couple of weekends ago, and wanted to investigate it further. I think I cracked the case, how about you?’
    ‘Wide open,’ Trevor replied, zipping up his jeans and grinning from ear to ear.

Satan’s Sauna
By Thom Gautier

    One autumn day, when I was up for my annual review at my brokerage house, I got on my knees at the local gym and gave Satan a clandestine blowjob. 
    Heading into my gym’s locker room, I saw a gallery of Polaroids – trainers in their Halloween costumes. My gaze landed on a shirtless red devil with the blond buzz cut. “Fisk”. I’d known this Fisk – just not by name. It sounded apt, his name, “Fisk”. 
    In this shirtless Halloween photo, his washboard abs looked as taut as I’d long imagined them to be – cut. His blue eyes contrasted pleasingly with his red-painted face with its pronounced cheekbones. His bare biceps and broad shoulders, body-painted red, were even wider and firmer than I’d imagined. And I had imagined. Staring at his Polaroid – his boyish smile alive with tricks and treats – I imagined what was underneath that Satan-red bathing suit: one of those vein-thick cocks that swell to a shiny pink-purplish hue when hard. Small horns protruded cutely from his close-cropped scalp. I was so excited as I entered the locker room that I had to use my duffel bag to hide my hard-on.
    Once I’d changed and gotten busy upstairs on the weight machines, I was still excited, and even swollen between my legs from my reverie in front of the Polaroid. I saw Fisk on the floor, coaching someone as he handled the medicine ball. He looked remarkably clear skinned compared to the red devil photo that was still resonating in me, and under the gym’s bright lights, Fisk’s blond hair was especially spiky and youthful. He was tall; he towered over his trainee without being intimidating. As he walked, he had a boyish, playground gait. Pausing between bench presses, I saw how he saw me looking over at him and, in that millisecond, as he nodded in my direction, I sensed beautiful trouble brewing. 
    As I pressed ahead with my workout, the weight of my looming review at work melted into wild flights of fantasy about Fisk. I imagined him behind me, urging me to hold my ankles as he entered me and I pumped the weights and imagined myself as the lucky bastard who had to coat Fisk’s body with that red Halloween paint. Lucky me, Satan’s stagehand. I imagined my helpful hand thickly messy with gooey red paint, my splayed fingers coating his thighs red, massaging the tight flesh around his dangling sex until my devil was painted red in every inch of skin except for his cock.
    Fisk’s training session drifted close enough that I could smell his mint-scented aftershave. I eavesdropped as he explained in a generous Midwestern tone of voice how to use the torso rotation machine and I savoured that innocent teacherly inflection so much that I couldn’t resist staring again. From under his tight black T-shirt, veins coursed over his biceps, down into his forearms and even into the