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Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Science Fiction
Description: Wired Hard 2 brings us a homoerotic collection of futuristic stories. Fighter pilots, high tech detectives, interstellar diplomats, prison convicts, espionage agents, and even angels--all men who love men--populate these tales. Dark and gritty like the hottest works of John Preston and Mason Powell, the stories in WIRED HARD 2 go deep into the psyche of male-male eroticism. Includes stories by: Gary Bowen, M. Christian, Whitt Pond, Eric Del Carlo, Karl-Rene Moore, Steven Schwartz, Mason Powell, Steve Eller, Tom Dickson, Ralph Greco.
eBook Publisher: Circlet Press, 1997 1997
eBookwise Release Date: August 2008

8 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [285 KB]
Words: 62083
Reading time: 177-248 min.

I almost lost my virginity at fifteen, but his batteries ran low.

He'd shown me the unit, unzipped tight jeans and flashed out the Long Thrust. State, top-of-the-line, implant augmentation. He'd had himself castrated for the best science had to offer. I wanted it. The instant I saw it, the polished, burnishing, gleam of it. I wanted it bad. Now. Hard. Fast.

My squat was old-wired 220 so its juice-pack couldn't take the flow. In playback, wet-memory, I see him--planes of his face dead in the cheap florescents, as he hunts in his bag for the adapter he didn't bring.

In the end, we lit expensive candles and he put his mouth on my cock.

His mouth was shocking wet, not like my dry hand or the spit sometimes to make it easier. It was too slippery, and too hot. I was blazing with shame and self pity, eyes fake closed and instead watching his head dip down. First a quick spray of over-the-counter anti-viral fog, then it was a wet test embrace on my cock, gentle kisses, then a wet socket over my cock.

Brent, friend of my dealer. I'd been taking longer to slip the black market yen, and taking the tiny plastic bags, just to watch him stand and pose: first time spotting was like that first time there in my squat. Thick leathers hiding old cop impact vest, skin-jeans slit to show off long legs, too-tight tee ("YANKEE IMPERIALIST VICTIM") paint on a stone-mason chest, face cragged and street-scarred but with museum planes. Eyes then on the street as they were in my recall of the squat--hidden and refrigerator cool behind convex mirrors of mandatory shades. He may have been handsome, might have made girls wet, boys hard--but I'd heard, and then he'd heard that I'd heard and there in that alley he zipped and flipped it out. Fuck, I wanted it in me right there.

I was smiling when he lifted from my hardening cock. Smiling back at his smiling face, at my smiling face reflected in his shades. We smiled at each other reflected over and over as he gently stroked my cock, kissing it, and sucking a mouthful of the ridged head (Momma thought cutting sanitary).

The squat was cold and my futon too fucking hard on my back. My jeans were bunched around my legs and my back was crooked funny against my pack. So I put my hand on his head and pushed myself down. So mature for that first time, so controlled from the burning pity and disappointment of that unit, dead and powerless between his legs.

Sloped down onto the futon, I let him suck my cock. The kisses got harder, his tongue began to play with the tip, that little hot hole in the end that sometimes felt like prickles and sometimes like warm steel. I was hard from his mouth there, from his hand gently holding and stroking, from his breath stirring the cool skin from my shaved balls and belly. I was deep inside, eyes really closed, letting his hands and mouth work me up and higher and harder. My balls begin to swell and heat. Something in me wanted to, and because of that, I guess, I let myself put a hand on the crotch of his hot jeans. He closed his legs on my fingers, trapping them in a denim vise as he made negative moans around my hard cock.

I let him suck more, letting myself burn deep and pissed and disappointed. I felt his teeth slide every inch across the skin of my shaft. I couldn't decide if it was on purpose or accident. And when I thought about it, anticipating it, or trying to block the hardness of his teeth it just added something to it. I was harder and harder.

I wanted something again, I could have what I really wanted but this would do--and from the heat of him on my cock I pushed a sweet little virginal "please" out. I opened my eyes and saw that I had slid myself down to his jeans. I could smell it, that sweet sting-smell of brand-new plastic and his sweat through the thin denim of his jeans. No negative this time. No refusal for the poor virgin boy. The sucking never stopped the teeth didn't glide (so I guessed he must be pretty fucking good at this), but the hands came out and slipped the jeans down.

Made in the best labs in Shadow Tokyo. Fucking pure lines--a curving, shining downward turning tusk of high-impact plastic nested into a shield of gleaming black chrome. I traced the inert row of decorative indicators that ran along the side of the shaft (as he sucked the head of my cock, just the head, stoking me wet and thumbing like a metronome beating against my balls and stomach), feeling their dimples, and wanting them to light. I kissed the dead head of his unit, tasting a lingering of lube from the last time he'd fucked with it (boy, girl, fist, unknown).