Boy Fun, Four Book Bundle Read online

  BOY FUN

  A collection of twenty erotic stories

  Edited by Lucas Steele

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2010

  ISBN 9781783755936

  Copyright © Accent Press Ltd 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Cover design by

  Adam Walker

  Contents

  Sand And Steel Shanna Germain

  Beauty And The Beast Penelope Friday

  How Many Times Is The First Time? Chrissie Bentley

  It's A Sin Alex Jordain

  Snow Wolf John Connor

  The Fist G R Richards

  Wired Landon Dixon

  Unleashing A Demon Eva Hore

  The Running Man Jade Taylor

  Basic Rules Of Anal Sex Kay Jaybee

  Safe And Sound Alex K Bell

  Kit Bag J L Merrow

  The Kennel Club John Connor

  Surfing Down Under Eva Hore

  Float Your Boat Landon Dixon

  Beach Challenge Elizabeth Coldwell

  A Birthday Present Ruth Ramsden

  The Anniversary Gift Garland

  Slash And Burn Michael Bracken

  The Collaring Penelope Friday

  Sand and Steel

  by Shanna Germain

  The man sucking me off knows what he’s doing. He runs the flat of his tongue around the end of my dick before he suctions me into his mouth, bit by bit. His lips look pink and raw against the fabric of the black ski mask he wears. His eyes are bound over the mask, so his lips are all I see of his face. His lips sliding over me, taking me in. It takes all of my focus to keep from closing my eyes as he sucks me, and I know that this is what he wants. He wants me off my game, vulnerable to the suck and slither of his tongue and lips.

  And I want him to think that he’s so good at what he’s doing that I have dropped my guard. So when he lets my dick slide from his mouth and leans down to tongue my balls, I decrease the pressure of the knife point against his neck. I moan to show him how he’s getting to me, how I might let him live if he gets me off well enough. The moan is an act, but it’s also part real. And that’s the thing that’s got my pulse thumping in my forehead. Even with his hands bound behind his back, he’s a risk. And that, as much as his mouth, is why I’m so fucking hard.

  He stops lapping my balls and puts his lips around the end of my dick again. I should stop him now, but I want just another minute inside the warm depths of his mouth. I want to face-fuck him just a bit longer. I already know he’s not going to give up the information. He’s too good. So I’m going to have to kill him. But first, I want. Fuck, I want.

  I put my hands on each side of his black hood and pull his head toward me. He leans willingly, swallowing me up until my brain feels like it’s whirl-pooling down into my stomach. His rhythm is hard and unyielding, a rough in and out that draws my balls up and my breath down.

  ‘Ah, fuck.’ I grab the back of his head and pull him off of me before I can come. It’s harder than I expect. To buy a little breathing time, I hold his head away and say, ‘I do love those pretty little lips of yours, especially against that black fabric. Like they’re just made for sucking cock.’

  My hard-on throbs in the air between us. He can’t see it, of course, not with his eyes bound. It lessens some of his humiliation, but I can’t risk having him see me. Not that he’s going to get out of this alive, but I’ve been taught to cover all my risks.

  I put my fingertip to his bottom lip. It’s wet with his saliva and my pre-come. There’s something about the way he sucks his lip in, under his top teeth, that reminds me of someone I used to know, a lifetime ago, but I can’t place it.

  ‘Now, I hate to waste a mouth like that. So let’s call a truce. You give me what I want –’

  I tap my palm against the side of his covered cheek to show I’m serious. ‘And I’ll think about letting you go.’ It’s a fair promise. As fair as I can make anyway.

  He doesn’t move or speak. He’s hardly moved or spoken in the last five hours, which is why I resorted to having him suck me. I know what he’s trained for: he can be buried alive; he can survive drowning and cold and heat. He can take pain. But pleasure? He’s not trained for pleasure.

  People on the outside think we’re cruel and somehow inhuman. And we are; just not in the way they think. It’s all about breaking our foes down, using fear and humiliation to protect what matters most.

  But this guy doesn’t seem to have either humiliation or fear. My men waited for five days for him to show and still they nearly missed him. Unlike a lot of guys nowadays, he actually knows how to do what needs to be done. I can tell from the way they bound his eyes without taking off his mask and from the ropes around his hands and feet that he put up a fight before I got here. I’m almost sorry I missed it. But there’s something kind about having him be anonymous; when you do things like I do, it’s easier if I never see their face.

  And now we’re alone, him and I, in this small concrete room in the middle of nowhere. Now we’re alone with each other and our wills.

  ‘C’mon,’ I say. I bounce my hard-on off his lower lip, just to remind him why we’re here. My dick reacts with its own little half-surge. I’m tempted to stick it back between those lips, to fuck his mouth until I come, but it’s a temptation that I can’t risk. Not yet. ‘Tell me what I want to know.’

  He says something, low enough that I can’t hear. It’s an old trick, and I’m not falling for it. You can stick your dick in a guy’s mouth and he’s smart enough not to bite it off, but you lean your face down there, and you don’t know what could happen.

  ‘Try again,’ I say.

  He licks his lips. The point of his tongue is wet with saliva and it leaves a trail across his top lip.

  ‘Let me watch you come,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice. Something about the deep spit of it sends a surge of blood into my dick, rising it a half-inch higher.

  Without waiting for my answer, he searches for my dick, finds the end of it with his lips and sucks me inside. He moans and my brain shuts down in the warm wet suck.

  ‘I don’t believe you, you know,’ I say, even as I’m reaching behind his head to take off the blindfold. My fingers shake, but the knot’s not hard to undo. He sucks my dick in deeper, until I swear I can feel his lips against my stomach. I like to close my eyes when I come – it takes me into a space I can’t capture otherwise – but I don’t dare.

  I pull the blindfold away as he bobs up and down on my dick, sucking it as though he’s sucking up oil or gold. I drop the blindfold to the ground. And then, everything happens at once: I start to come inside the hot wet hole of his mouth, the man raises his blue eyes to my face, and I understand that I have fucked up.

  I back up, sliding my twitching dick from his lips. Come sprays the air between us, but I barely notice.

  ‘Jesus,’ I breathe. ‘Fuck, Jonas? What the fuck?’

  The man’s eyes flick toward me when I say his name. And then his lips curl up at the corners. ‘Shit,’ he says. ‘No wonder you felt so good in my mouth. I should have known it was you.’

  He says my name, and it’s the same way he said it then. The same way he said it in that sugar cookie summer.

  Sugar cookie summer. That’s how we thought of it then, but that’s not how I think of it now. Now,
I think of it as Indoc summer. As the summer of sand and surf, of hypothermia and drown-proofing. As the summer we started out as boys and ended as men. The summer I almost rang Mother Moy’s Black Bell. The summer of me and Jonas.

  From day one of Indoc training, Jonas wasn’t hard to spot. He was the only white boy in our class. Which isn’t to say there weren’t other white boys, but no one was as white as him, with his pale-pale skin and his beyond-blond crew cut. Even his eyes were as white as you could get and still have any colour in them. Blue, but like snow goes blue in the twilight. Only thing dark about him was his tattoo, a huge solid black dragon that lounged across his upper back and blew black smoke around his arm.

  It was that arm I had a hold of as we waded into the seven-foot breakers, my feet turning to instant ice and goose bumps breaking out on every part of my body. On the other side of me was Chuddah, although I didn’t know yet he was Chuddah. I just thought of him as the big black boy with arms like cold slabs of meat linked into mine.

  There were 164 of us in that surf line that summer, Indoc SEAL class, the number of which is classified. Somewhere between 200 and 250, is all I can say. Which meant that at least 2,000 men had done this exact same thing we were doing, and had somehow survived it.

  That’s what I kept reminding myself as Darhart hollered at us to turn and lie on our backs in the surf. I can’t imagine what we looked like from above, still linked, turning as one unit, to put our heads at the surf line and our legs on the sand.

  The first time the water came over my head, I knew I would drown. That’s what you do when you look up to see this cold claw of black water coming at you. It came down over us, harder than water should be, and it filled my mouth and eyes and ears like the opposite of a deprivation chamber. With my arms linked, I couldn’t let go, wouldn’t let go if they didn’t, and then the water went away and we spit it out and shook it from our eyes and were glad to be alive.

  That gladness lasted about four waves and then you wished one of those waves would just fill you so much you’d never feel the cold again. Rocks and sand bashing your skin, as bruising as the butt of a gun. Who knew that water could carry such things, could bring them down with such force?

  That moment, I wished for death, maybe. Hell, I did. I can say that now. If it hadn’t been for Jonas, squeezing my arm with that bicep of his, I would have gotten up to run, I would have been the first to ring that big black bell and go back to the shit hole I’d come from. But every time the water went away, Jonas was looking at me with his no-colour eyes. One time, he even tried to say something before the next wave knocked sand and seashells against our lips.

  Darhart walked at our feet. I hated him for being dry. ‘Let’s hear you,’ he said.

  No one wanted to start. The call seemed stupid, a grade school game.

  ‘If I don’t hear you, you’re out.’

  Next to me, Jonas started the howl. His “hoo-ya” was louder than I could have imagined, and it only took seconds for others to answer him. I found my own voice joining them until the surf busted in and washed the howl from my lips. As soon as I could breathe, I started again. It felt good, like a fuck-you to Darhart, to our own bodies’ needs, to the ocean itself.

  After a while, I became nothing but rhythm; the slowed-down beat of my sluggish blood. There was eternity in every crash of water, purpose in every inhale and sound. Jonas’ hoo-ya in my ears and my own howl in response.

  Darhart’s voice surprised me out of the place I’d gone. ‘Sand dunes!’

  We ran to the sand dunes still linked together, our own giant wave of wet men. But we rolled alone. Rolled ourselves in the sand until our boots, our trousers, our T-shirts, our hair, our ears and eyes were full of sand. Sugar cookies, they called it. I’ve never been able to eat them since. Just looking at them on a plate makes me feel the grit of sand squeaking between my teeth.

  With Jonas and Chuddah on either side of me, we did that cycle – water and sand – five times straight. Five times and my gut felt like it was ready to puke out everything it ever had down it. My face was so cold I didn’t know if I was still wearing it. Chuddah was shivering on one side of me. When a man that big shivered, and his arms were linked with yours, you shivered too. You more than shivered; you shook so hard your teeth clunked together. Even if you weren’t already shaking on your own, which I was.

  At the end of sugar cookie roll five, we stood. My skin chafed and burned inside the wet rough of my clothes. My teeth and eyes were full of sand. My belly contracted and threatened to heave. There’s pain that makes sense, and pain that doesn’t. And then there’s pain that’s beyond thinking. This was that kind of pain, and it was still the beginning.

  ‘Steel it out,’ Jonas said. I don’t know how he could even move his lips. Mine were so cold they could only press together to try and keep my guts inside.

  He put his hand on my shoulder. Big hand. Maybe hot, maybe cold. I couldn’t feel a damn thing. But where his attention had helped me through the surf line, now I wanted to punch him. Him, standing in front of me not shaking at all. Able to smile even though I could see the sand between his front teeth. I thought he was the kind of man who would make it through Indoc. And I was pretty sure that meant I was the kind of man who wouldn’t.

  I wanted Jonas from that first day in surf-training. I can say that now. Jonas was the reason I stayed, the reason I made it, not just through surf training, but later, when things got harder. I didn’t know why Jonas stayed. I liked to imagine that it was because of me. But I think he stayed because it was the only thing he knew how to do.

  I fucked Jonas in my head on the long runs, on the surf and sugar cookies days. I sucked his imagined dick in my mind during drown-proofing – hours in the water with our hands and feet tied, bouncing up for air. The image of Jonas’ imagined dick was sometimes all that kept me afloat.

  It was the grinder, that mother-fucker of an obstacle course, that finally brought us together. Two weeks in and we hit it: parallel bars, jumping over shit, jogging on rolling logs, a 40-foot-high cargo net. You name it. If they could dream it up, they had us going over it, under it or staying upright on it.

  The rope swing was what hung me up. Jonas and I were in the back. Jonas because he liked to stick back and catch up with everyone halfway through the pack. I was there because Jonas was there.

  I was a skinny boy then. Strong, but skinny. Could hold my breath and body underwater for ages. Could run down a beach and back a 100 times. But that rope swing. Damned if I could pull myself up it. First time, I ran at it, full speed, hauled myself a third of the way up and landed on my ass in the sand.

  Darhart stalked behind us.

  ‘Try it again,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Jonas said, quiet. I knew Darhart could hear him, but Jonas was like that. He could get away with things.

  I tried that rope eight, nine times. I told myself I could do it, and every time I ended up on my ass in the sand. I couldn’t feel my palms any more, but I could smell the rope burning through my skin. The rope began to turn red-brown where I grabbed it.

  Darhart motioned toward the pickup that followed up everywhere, carrying Mama Moy’s Black Bell. Three rings on that big black bell and you could leave, no questions asked. The palms on my hands bleeding into the sand made that black bell look good, made it look like home. Better than home.

  I made a step toward the bell, so dark and solid in the sunlight, and it was Jonas who put his hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t look into his no-colour eyes, so different from the blood on my hands. ‘Steel it out,’ he said out loud. Softer, so I could barely hear him, he said, ‘Steel it out for me.’

  I did. I steeled it out for Jonas, for his eyes and the way his dick looked in my head when I was underwater, and I made it to the top of that bastard of a rope.

  That night, Jonas came to me. So quiet I didn’t hear him, even though I was already wake-dreaming of him in my bunk, my hand covering my hard-on.

  ‘Come with me,’ he whispe
red. He pulled me from my bed and through the dark room.

  Men stirred around us in their bunks. I knew they could hear, but no one spoke. Because it was Jonas.

  I followed him into the night in my boxers, bare feet stepping forward without thinking. In the dark, the Grinder took on new shapes, more solid, more real.

  ‘Hands on the rope,’ he said, when we reached it.

  I put my hands up, felt the rope burn into my tender palms.

  In the silent dark, Jonas’ mouth was the soft surf sliding over mine; a kinder surf than what I’d known these last two weeks, but not much. He used his teeth on my lips, biting hard until I thought I tasted blood, but I didn’t know if it was from earlier, from the way I’d licked my palms after, like a cat.

  He bit his way down the front of me until he reached my boxers. His breath came through the fabric, and then his fingers were against my hips, pulling down the shorts. My dick bounced up against the cold air, searching.

  He made me lick his palm, each of his fingers, until his hand was wet. He reached down and rubbed my saliva over the head of his dick.

  ‘Don’t let go,’ he said.

  I couldn’t answer, so I just shook my head in the dark.

  His fingers entered me. He wasn’t slow or kind, and I was glad. My hands hurt like hell, and now my lip. And I’d almost rang that big fucking bell and gone back to my hell-hole of a life. I’d nearly fucked up. I wanted him to make me feel pain somewhere, anywhere, else.

  And he did. The tip of his dick against my ass was only pressure at first, and then it was wet pain. The same as my hands, only focused. A knife pressing against the well of vein until it splits. And then there was only pressure and the light-headed white pain that comes from opening yourself up.

  I kept my hands on the rope, held on as strong as I could. His slide into me wasn’t slow, but it was sure. It was metal and rod and then Jonas’ dick in my ass hitting that spot so far up that it was like the knot at the top of the highest rope. His balls slapping against me. The whole of me tight and loose in waves. The rhythm of it. There was eternity in every stroke. And then Jonas crashed into me, his teeth clenched in my shoulder, whispering ‘hoo-ya’ until I came, a shuddering exhale.