Gay Erotic Stories

I love days like this, even more so now that I don’t have the hassle or worries of work. Get up when I like, do what I like, within reason. I was up today just before 8.00, the bright sun lighting up the bedroom, making it impossible to sleep longer. Showered, shaved, dressed and fed. E-mails checked and replied to. Chores completed, it was ironing today, once exclusively a Sunday task but no longer, now that I can do it when I want. Late morning, late March, clear blue sky, warmer than the seasonal norm. Might spend an hour or so in the park in the afternoon, I thought to myself, a pleasure I had recently rediscovered now that I had plenty of time on my hands.

I’d already been outside to check whether a jacket was needed. Not really. There was no breeze and it was only a short walk there and back to the paper shop, my next task. Might need one if I go to the park though, I thought. I hadn’t gone far when I had an idea. Why not take my lunch with me and eat it in the park? I can take a book to read once I’d read the paper. I turned around and went back to the house, quickly made a sandwich, picked up the book I was reading well, re-reading, actually. John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany never ceased to delight me, no matter how often I’d read it. I put on a light jacket, packed the lunch and book in my rucksack and headed back out.

Paper, The Grauniad, and a bottle of water bought and packed in the rucksack, along with the jacket which I had removed, I headed off to the park, a 10 minute stroll. A non-school day, it was quiet but I could hear the squeals and laughter from the children’s play area even though it was out of view. I made my way to my favourite spot, the rose garden, a bit of a suntrap. It was open on one side but the other three were sheltered from the wind by thick bushes, plants and trees. I knew it would be lovely and warm in the absence of any wind. The three sheltered sides had benches spaced every 10 yards or so apart.

It was deserted except for one of the park’s gardeners’ who was busy tending a flower bed. I recognised him from previous visits but we had never spoken before and nor had I had a proper look at him. Now I did both. As I approached my preferred bench he looked up. Good morning, he said, what a beautiful day it is. Good morning and yes it is, I replied, observing him as if for the first time which, I suppose, I was. A little taller than me, of similar age or slightly older with short cropped grey hair, powerfully built with the hint of a slight belly under his short-sleeved shirt which was neither tucked in nor the official uniform usually warn by the park employees. I wondered whether that had any significance. Some sort of identification badge was pinned to his shirt but I couldn’t make out what it said.

His face, which was rugged and handsome, and arms were well tanned, presumably due to the amount of time he spent outside, and I also noticed that his arms were covered in a mass of dark grey hair. Wouldn’t say no, I thought to myself and settled down, removing the paper from the rucksack. I glanced at my watch. It was just before 12.00 as I started to read, heading straight for the sports section. I could hear the sound of the gardener as he tended the flower bed and I would occasionally glance up at him. He was using a hoe and looked to be loosening and removing weeds and stones which he would drag to the edge of the bed. I noticed that he had a gardening glove on one hand only and I wondered why. On one of my glances up I found out. He would occasionally gather up the weeds and stones with his gloved hand and put them in a large bucket. On more than one occasion as I glanced up I was sure that he had been looking at me.

I was engrossed in the main section of the paper when he next spoke, the finished sports section folded and placed on the bench beside me. Would you mind keeping an eye on the hoe for a short while, he asked, I’ll only be 10 minutes. Of course, I said, looking up and smiling at him. Thank you very much, he said, smiling back and leaning the hoe against the bench. With that he left and I checked my watch. It was 12.50, not quite time for my sandwich, and I had been there nearly an hour. After about 10 minutes he had returned with a carrier bag. Thanks again, he said, removing the hoe and placing it under the bench out of the way. Do you mind if I eat my lunch here, he asked, it’s my favourite spot. Be my guest, I said and went to move the discarded sports section. As I did so he asked if he could read it and I readily agreed.

He settled down and removed his packed lunch from his carrier bag and I decided it was time to eat mine. We ate in silence for a while and then he spoke again. I’ve seen you a few times in here lately he said, do you work locally? No I replied, turning to face him and noticed that what I thought was his identification badge was actually his title. Head Gardener it read. I live locally but I’ve recently retired and I’ve decided to make the most of the park when the weather’s good and the kids are still in school. We chatted briefly about how relatively quiet the park was now compared to how it would be during the Easter and summer holidays.

You look too young to have retired, he stated, how come you’ve finished so early, he asked. I told him what I used to do, how the opportunity for voluntary retirement had arisen and, as a mortgage and commitment free single man I had worked out I could just about afford to retire and did not intend working again. He laughed. Wish I could do that, he said. We were quite for a while and then he asked me if I didn’t get bored and how I spent my days. I told him that no, I was never bored as there was always plenty to do and, on days like this, local beauty spots to visit and enjoy. I also told him that I’d recently started to do a little writing for pleasure. What sort of writing, he asked, folding the paper and placing it over his lap. Fiction, I said, short-stories. I glanced at him and he was looking at me. Erotic fiction, I said, looking for some sort of reaction, trying to gauge if he was genuinely interested. There wasn’t any except for a slight widening of his eyes.

His next question surprised me. Where do you get your ideas from, he said. I paused, considering how best to respond. They can come from anywhere, I replied, from something I’ve read or heard, from something someone says to me. From something that happens, I continued. I looked at him again, wondering whether I should carry on. Why not, I thought? He seemed genuinely interested. For example, I said, I could turn this situation into a story. It was his turn to glance at me, his turn to pause as if considering how to respond. That’s very interesting, he said. I’d like to hear it, would you mind telling it to me, please, throwing down the challenge. I folded the newspaper and placed it on my lap, copying his earlier action. OK, I said, deciding to run the gauntlet, are you sitting comfortably….

…You glance at your watch. It’s 12.30 and still half an hour until lunchtime. The sun is beating down, warm for the time of year, and the physical exertion of hoeing the flower bed has brought a slight sweat to your brow. You pause, remove a handkerchief from your pocket and wipe your brow. As you do so, you spot him again, a regular visitor at this time. A local office worker, you have concluded, one who possibly lives nearby too as sometimes he appears later in the afternoon, you have previously noticed, perhaps after work. Not always on days such as today, either. He has appeared when it has been cooler and overcast. He usually goes through the same routine, eating some sort of packed lunch before reading a newspaper or book. Sometimes he’ll stay for an hour or so, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. You’re always in his eye line. Or is it that he’s always in yours?

Although too far away to be certain, you think that you’ve caught him staring at you every now and again. You think that you’ve spotted him run a hand up his thigh only to stop shortly before the groin area. He always looks back over his shoulder as he leaves to see if you are looking at him. You always are with one arm resting against whichever implement is being used that day. You begin to look forward to these visits from the mysterious stranger. You’re not sure why but you have your suspicions. He has brought out hitherto latent, hidden feelings in you, aroused your curiosity. Aroused your cock which, invariably by the time he leaves, has started to stir. You’ve never been with a man, never had the inclination to go with a man and so the stirrings both excite and puzzle you.

You’ve never been close enough to get a proper look at him. Not until today, that is. He’s come into the rose garden, the garden you’re working in, and sat on your favourite bench, the one you like to have lunch at. He’s sat no more than 10 yards from you. Good afternoon, you say, addressing him, looking at him, it’s a beautiful day, you say. You guess that he’s mid-twenties, stockily built, the type of build he’ll have to take care doesn’t run to chubby or worse once he hits his thirties. Smartly dressed wearing a bright shirt and tie, jacket already removed. A handsome face with full lips, kissable, chewable lips, lips which he runs his tongue around suggestively as you await his answer. He’s wearing glasses, clear lensed, through which piercing blue eyes are staring at you, appraising you. You realise that you have held your breath as you wait for some response. He smiles and you breathe again. Yes, isn’t it, he says, and you nod in agreement before returning to work reluctantly. You try to ignore him but cannot, sneaking glances and yes, sometimes he is looking at you too, cool, detached, a knowing smile on his face, a smile that suggests he knows that he has got you to use when he wants you, you the fly caught in his spiders web.

It’s 13.00 now and time for your lunch. Do you take the bait? Yes, you cannot resist, the pull of the spider is too strong. You approach him. He’s sat with one leg crossed over the thigh of the other, his book cradled between his legs as he finishes a sandwich. The trouser leg has ridden up slightly on the top leg exposing two inches of pale skin between black sock and black trouser, the skin covered in dark hairs. You cannot avert your eyes temporarily, wondering what it would be like to run your hand up that leg, realising that an erection is forming, hidden beneath your gardening uniform. He senses you and looks up, that knowing smile on his face as he closes his book but doesn’t speak. You awake from your reverie. Would you mind keeping an eye on the hoe for a short while, you ask, I’ll only be 10 minutes. Of course, he says, smiling at you. Thank you very much, you say, smiling back and leaning the hoe against the bench.

You return quickly with your packed lunch and your paper, The Grauniad. Thanks again, you say, removing the hoe and placing it under the bench. Do you mind if I eat my lunch here, you ask, it’s my favourite spot. Be my guest, he says, removing his jacket to make space for you. You settle down and start to eat your packed lunch, conscious of his presence next to you, wishing that he would speak but he doesn’t and why should he for it is you who are trapped and in need of release? You speak. I’ve seen you a few times in here lately you say, do you work locally? He turns to face you, smiling, and you feel at ease. Yes, he says. I live locally too which is why you’ve sometimes seen me later in the day, he continues, and you realise that in a roundabout way he is telling you that his is aware that you have been looking at him. I like to escape the office if I can, there are far more attractions in the park, he goes on, looking at you directly with those piercing blue eyes and you know that by attractions he is including you.

As if to prove the point, he looks around to see that there is no one looking. The garden is deserted save for the two of you. He takes hold of your hand and you do not resist. He places your hand on his groin. He lets go. You do not. You can feel him, erect, hot, hot for you. You let go as if suddenly struck by an electric shock. I’m not gay, you stammer, unable to look him in the eye, staring straight ahead instead, I’ve never done that before. There is a slight, embarrassed pause and then he touches you lightly on the cheek. You turn to face him. I know, he says, softly, gently, his face more worldly and wise than should be the case for one so young, but you feel something too he adds knowingly. With that, he looks around the still deserted garden and places his hand on your groin where you too are erect and hot. You make no attempt to remove it, instead you groan quietly but audibly.

He removes his hand and looks at his watch. I’ve got to go now, he says, but I can come back later, after work, if you would like me too. You hesitate, torn between the conflicting emotions of desire and doubt raging within you. Doubt wins. I’m sorry, no, you state, I’m not interested, I’m not like that. With that he stands, packs away his book and lunch debris, puts on his jacket and starts to walk away without speaking, walking past you to exit the rose garden. Within a few seconds, he will have left, possibly gone forever, leaving you wondering, regretting what might have been. Desire fights back and triumphs. Wait, you cry, and he stops, turning back round to face you. Can you be at the Keeper’s Lodge gate at just gone six, you ask. He looks at you, smiles and nods his head in the affirmative. Yes, he says, I’ll be there.

You spend the afternoon tending the beds in the rose garden, conflicting emotions of doubt and desire coursing through you. Shall you or shan’t you go ahead with the meeting. Yes you shall then no you shan’t. You’re a happily married man with a healthy sex life. You have no interest in men, doubt tells you. So why are you attracted to him, why are you aroused by him, desire responds. Six o’clock is fast approaching. All of the park gates are now locked. All of the staff have left except for you. You are in the Keeper’s Lodge waiting for him to turn up. What will you do? Doubt grows stronger. You will remain hidden in the Lodge until you are sure that he has gone. No, you are not like that. You will tell him that you do not wish to go through with it, whatever it might be, that’s the least he deserves, you conclude. Argument over, doubt prevails.

He works flexi-time so it’s not unusual for him to work late. It’s a 10 minute walk to the park but the Keeper’s Lodge is on the far side and he will have to walk around it, adding another five minutes or so to the journey. He aims to leave at 5.45. As he starts to pack up, his boss calls him into the office with a query which must be dealt with immediately. It takes 10 minutes or so to resolve and so it’s just before six when he finally gets away. He’s going to be late and wonders if you will wait for him to show up or assume that he has decided not to. He runs part of the way, trying to cut the journey time to 10 minutes.

It’s now six. You leave the Lodge and approach the gate. There is no sign of him. How long should you give him? 5 minutes, 10? You decide on 5. Still no sign after 5 but you decide on a couple of more minutes before turning to go back to the Lodge. You’re feeling relieved as you did not have to tell him that you did not want him, absolved of all blame as it was he who did not show. Then you hear the sound of someone running which stops abruptly and the gate rattles. You know it’s him, he has come. You turn around and see him. He’s slightly flushed and breathing quite heavily. I’m sorry I’m late, he pants, but my boss collared me just as I was leaving. You approach the gates intending to tell him that you’re sorry but that you’ve changed your mind. You can feel the weight of the gate key in your pocket and put your hand in to take hold of it, as if it will give you strength at this awkward moment. As you do so you are aware that your cock is stirring again, you can feel it rising as you clasp the key, desire is fighting back. You take the key from your pocket and open the gate. I thought you weren’t coming, you say as you let him in, desire triumphant.

He enters and walks passed you, gently caressing your groin as he does so, feeling your swelling erection. You lead him into the Lodge, locking the door behind you and pulling down the blinds just in case. You turn towards him and say I haven’t done this before and I’m not sure what to do. He smiles at you. I know, he says. It’ll be OK, I’ll take the lead. With that he puts his arms around you, pulls you into him and you feel the warmth of his body against yours. You breathe in his odour, the lingering remains of that morning’s cologne mixed with his natural musky scent, intensified by his rushing to meet you, and you are lost, no turning back now. He kisses you gently on the lips. You close your eyes. You’re surprised at how soft he is, how sweet he is. You feel his tongue start to part your lips and you respond, allowing him in, his tongue exploring your mouth, linking with your tongue. You love the taste, the sensation and, emboldened, you use your tongue to explore his mouth too. You continue kissing deeply, passionately, as passionate, as intimate as any kiss you have ever had and it is with a man half your age.

His arms are exploring your body, caressing your back, stroking your stomach, tweaking your nipples over your shirt. You reciprocate and you are surprised at how large his erect nipples are and you long to suck them, to chew on them as you do with your wife’s. You break the kiss and come up for air. As you do, he takes off his tie and then starts to undo your shirt buttons, running his hands through your thick chest hair, tweaking your nipples with his fingers and then sucking on them greedily with his mouth. You gasp as he bites them, your cock, now furiously erect, straining in your trousers.

You undo the buttons of his shirt and remove it revealing a black triangle of hair between his nipples, a trail of black hairs running down the middle of his belly, past his belly button, pointing the way to his penis which you can feel pushing into you. You marvel at the sight of his nipples and take one in your mouth, sucking and chewing eagerly. You move on to the other and do the same. He pulls you up and you kiss passionately again. His hand feels for your cock and he starts to stroke it, to tug at it through the fabric. He uses both hands to undo your belt, to unfasten your trousers. He pulls them down and his hands caress your buttocks through your boxers. He pulls those down too, freeing your penis from its prison and you are effectively naked.

He wastes no time in dropping to his knees and he takes you in his mouth, licking your bell end, licking the length of your shaft, sucking eagerly. You are surprised that he can take you all, your wife having never been able to deep throat you. You don’t want him to stop and you’re not ready to cum. He doesn’t want you to cum either, he has other plans for you, and so he slows down, gently sucking now, shorter and shorter until he lets go. He stands up and kisses you again and you taste yourself for the first time. Now you want to taste him. You undo his trousers and tug them down, doing the same with his briefs. You take hold of his cock, marvelling at how hot and heavy it feels, and cup his swollen, large balls. You copy him and drop to your knees. You pull back his foreskin. He is wet with pre-cum. You have tasted your own and now you prepare to taste his. You move your mouth towards him. He smells musky, manly, masculine and you realise you must have smelt like that too. You like the smell. You lick his end and clean it of pre-cum. You love the taste and want more. You want him to cum in your mouth.

You gently take more of him in and start to suck and lick. He starts to groan in pleasure. He is too large for you to take it all but you take as much as you can. You feel pressure on the back of your head and he starts to fuck your mouth. You gag occasionally but make no attempt to pull away. You squeeze his balls, his groans grow louder. He puts more pressure on your head and then you feel his hot, salty, sweet cum hit the back of your throat, once, twice, three, four times. He keeps his hand on your head so that you cannot escape, leaving you no option but to swallow, which you do. He eases the pressure and leaves go of your head. You continue to suck him slowly, loving every drop, ensuring that he is clean before standing back up.

He kisses you, his eager tongue hunting for the remains of his own cum. You are still furiously erect and are wondering if he is going to make you cum too. Of course he is. He kicks off his shoes and pulls off his trousers. He picks them up and searches in one of the pockets. He pulls out a condom. I want you to fuck me, he says, tearing at the wrapper. He expertly unrolls the condom down your shaft and then, to your surprise, takes you in his mouth again, lubricating you with his saliva. Another surprise. You are expecting him to bend over so you can fuck him from behind. I want to watch you, he says and with that he gets up on the desk. He positions himself on the edge and you move in closer, your erect cock almost level with his hole. He adjusts his position to make it easier for you. You lick your fingers and rub them against his hole, adding some lubrication. You are both ready, his legs splayed over your shoulders. You press against his entry and the door opens. You enter him pushing forward slowly as he groans in pleasure. You wonder if it will all fit in. It does. You start to thrust, long slow thrusts, loving the sensation, tighter than your wife’s pussy.

Faster he says and you comply. Harder, he says and you respond, thrusting up to the hilt. You know that you will not last long. I’m cumming you say as you thrust deeply into him. As you do, he contracts his anal muscles, trapping you as you explode into the condom. He releases you. You thrust gently a few more times before slowly withdrawing. He gets off the desk and takes hold of your still sheathed cock. He removes the condom and gets back on his knees to clean you off. You kiss again, your first taste of your own cum. You both dress in silence. Thank you, you eventually say, I never dreamt it could be as wonderful as that …..

….. Well, I said story finished and turning to the head gardener, what do you think? He looked around as if checking that we were still alone and took hold of my hand. This is what I think, he said, placing my hand underneath the newspaper and placing it on his groin where I could clearly feel his erection. Just a couple of criticisms though, he said, as I removed my hand. Firstly, he said laughing, at this time of year the park is open until 6.30. More importantly, he would be far too young for me. I’d much rather have someone of my own age. What do you think of that, it was his to turn to ask, smiling at me. I did not know what to say, the story teller lost for words, so instead I took hold of his hand and placed it under the newspaper on my lap so that he could feel my erection which he squeezed. That’s what I think of that, I said.

I looked into his eyes, both of us smiling. He removed his hand and said I’ve got to go and clock back in and I’m working in the conservatory this afternoon. He reached under the bench and retrieved the hoe. Thank you, he said, I loved the story but I’d prefer the reality. He turned and left. As he reached the end of the rose garden he turned around. That will be 6.30, then, Keeper’s Lodge. Don’t forget the condom….