#MySexySaturday — A Tiny Taste of “Nasty Boys”

For week #26 our theme is that pinnacle moment where you know the two lovers in a story are about to lose their cool and get all crazy on each other.

That is an excellent moment.

For my offering, I’m excerpting my short story “Johnny and Clyde” from Nasty Boys: Rough Trade Erotica, the latest guy on guy anthology from Cleis Press and editor Shane Allison.

He Looks Like Trouble, and You Know You Want Some.

The three bikers split up, and John found himself flying
down a dirt lane at breakneck speed, his arms tightly hugging
the dangerous stranger in front of him. Wind whipped his face,
stung his eyes to a liquid blur. The green-brown of forest sailed
by in smudged watercolor. The grim reaper could have loomed
alongside the lonely stretch of road, and John would have
reached out a hand to high-five him.

When they finally skidded to a stop at the rear of a small
cabin somewhere in the lonely woods of upstate New York, or
possibly even Vermont, John had an aching hard on, a windslapped
face and the sweetest sense of abandon. It didn’t matter
that the masked guy still had a gun tucked in his pants. John had
noticed the tattooed message on the biker’s fingers as the man
had choked the throttle. The right-hand knuckles, deciphered
from John’s upside-down vantage point, read OUTS. The left
was inked with IDER. Outsider. The word called to him. It
made him believe that he and the rough biker were somehow
meant to be here right now. They were like the cogs in a clock
that gripped together perfectly to push each other forward.

The man slid off the bike. He faced John as he pulled the
pistol from the front of his pants. Johnny could only stare at the
smattering of dark belly hair that led down into his jeans. He
licked his lips and imagined tracing the angry red welt left by
the hard metal barrel. With his mouth watering, he devoured the
guy’s semi-aroused state with his eyes. The gun wasn’t trained
on him, but held at the robber’s side. Even so, John didn’t feel
that approaching the guy was a wise move.

Instead, he inched a hand over his own hard dick and slid
it down his bound length then back up, wrapping his fingers
around himself as much as the dress slacks allowed, and
stroking. The man watched him silently.

“Let me taste your cock,” John said gruffly, still unsure if his
words would get him killed. How did he know this guy wasn’t
ramrod straight and homophobic as well? He saw the hint of a
pink tongue dart out to wet the man’s lips under the knit mask, and blood surged to his prick, full and fast and almost painful.

The man was unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning. Unzipping. “Come ’ere.”

John knelt on the hard ground before a pair of black boots
decorated with steel rings.


About Kimber Vale

Author of romance of all stripes. View all posts by Kimber Vale

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