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

chinos until he stilled my hands. Stilled the thing in my chest that beat its wings and demanded its due. Through the niceties and the readying part of me laughed and part of me sobbed and I heard both echo through the big empty room. 
    Sliding into Simon, feeling him clench around me, hearing his steady and somehow serene breathing was bright yellow. In my mind I could see it, like cleansing rays of the brightest sunlight. When I came it flooded out of me. Light through my fingertips, light out of my toes. I laughed deep yellow laughter when Simon bucked under me. His come coating my fist and warming me all over. 
    Finally, I kissed him. Hard. I was ready for round two with the camera. I thought it might catch something new this time. Something easier. Something more peaceful.
    His warm fingers on my chest made me shiver and he said, ‘your scars will look lovely in black and white.’
    The scars were far from faded. The ones the camera could see and the ones it could not, but I felt easier about them. I laughed and grabbed him by his warm brown hair and kissed him some more. ‘I bet you say that to all the boys,’ I said. In the corner, Beatrice chuffed as bright buttery sunshine flooded the small room.

Garden Variety by Michael Bracken

    My fellow gardeners all tell stories about a “guy they used to work with” or a “friend of a guy they used to work with” who was seduced by the woman of the house where they were working. That’s never actually happened to anyone I know, and no female client of our landscaping and lawn care service would interest me. It’s not because some of them aren’t beautiful; it’s because I’m not out of the toolshed. I keep my sexuality to myself to avoid the compost I would have to put up with from my co-workers.
    Of course, my attitude changed when I was assigned to the Winchester property. Old Man Winchester had a two-storey Tudor at the butt-end of a cul-de-sac, a large place with simple lawn care needs. Because we were perpetually short-handed and I was accustomed to working alone, the Winchester property became my regular Thursday assignment. I mowed. I edged. I trimmed the hedges. And I tended a small rose garden near the pool house.
    I worked through spring before I realised the young man living in the pool house wasn’t the old man’s grandson, and I worked halfway through the summer before I realised the exact nature of their relationship. By then Kyle was leaving his blinds open on Thursdays, and more than once while tending the rose garden I caught sight of him changing clothes or towelling himself dry after a mid-day shower.
    At least ten years younger than me, Kyle had a figure sculpted by good diet, long hours in the gym, and just enough time in and around the pool to turn his firm young body an all-over bronze and his finger-length hair nearly blond. The gene pool he’d sprang from was kind to him as well, endowing him with a long, thick cock and heavy balls that he kept neatly groomed but not completely hairless.
    One Thursday afternoon, while I was watering the roses with a garden hose, Kyle walked out of the pool house with a towel wrapped around his waist. When he reached the diving board he dropped the towel, revealing that he’d worn nothing beneath it. He stepped onto the diving board, walked to the end, bounced several times, his thick cock slapping at his taut abdomen, and then jack-knifed into the pool, slicing into the water with nary a splash. He surfaced halfway down the length of the pool and the smooth strokes of an Australian crawl carried him to the far end.
    Kyle rose from the shallow end, water streaming from his body, and he climbed the steps out of the pool. He tilted his head back and used both hands to push his hair away from his forehead. The movement of his arms caused his chest to expand and his abdomen muscles to tighten. By then my cock had tented the front of my sage-coloured work pants.
    He returned to the diving board and retrieved his towel. As he straightened up, Kyle looked directly at me and asked, ‘Having trouble controlling your hose?’
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘You can keep watering the concrete, but it won’t grow.’
    I glanced down at the garden hose, saw that I was watering the walk, and shifted position so the stream of water splashed into the rose garden.
    Kyle towelled his hair and then draped the towel around his shoulders. ‘You spend a lot of time watching me.’
    I couldn’t deny it, so I