Extreme Tales of Gay Sex, Cannibalism, and Torture

By Felix Lance Falcon

This volume assembles 14 tales of gay sex, cannibalism, and torture -- dark subject handled with a light style, often with a science fiction or fantasy setting. Men having sex with carnivorous plants that eat them, or vampires that feed on -- and heighten the intensity of -- gay sex are just a few of the themes explored in this explicit gay, adults-only volume. This volume assembles 14 tales of gay sex, cannibalism, and torture -- dark subject handled with a light style, often with a science fiction or fantasy setting. Men having sex with carnivorous plants that eat them, or vampires that feed on -- and heighten the intensity of -- gay sex are just a few of the themes explored in this explicit gay, adults-only volume.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Apr 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781434446800

Book preview

Copyright Information

Copyright © 2010 by Wildside Press LLC

for the Estate of Felix Lance Falcon.

Cover art copyright © Adam Radosavljevic.

Exotics Bar & Transit Ltd.

Mickey, the bartender at the Exotics Bar, silently told himself, Starting a story right smack dab in the middle of the Trojan War is one thing, but landing in the middle of Troy itself—and the war—is another matter entirely. He stood behind Lou, the Bar’s doorman-&-bouncer: an impressively muscled young bodybuilder, who had wandered in a few nights ago, searching for his training partner, and had accepted a job offer.

Mickey and Lou looked out the Bar’s doorway into the wine-dark street, watching a battle that swirled around the legs of a large wooden horse that stood a few dozen paces away.

Sanctuary! Sanctuary! cried someone in archaic Greek. Mickey heard running footsteps, then saw three naked figures—a man and two boys—reach the doorway from the darkness beyond.

Hey, Lou said, his words—thanks to the Exotics Bar’s universal translation spell—also coming out as archaic Greek. This is a bar. You can’t bring snakes in here. It’s bad for business if customers see them; they’ll think they’ve been drinking too much.

Mickey saw what at first glance looked like long green scarves resolved themselves large, green snakes, each wrapped around one of three, otherwise naked, sanctuary seekers. And you two kids don’t look old enough to—

Aw, come on, said one boy. This is an emergency.

We’re older than we look, said the other boy. Mother’s a small woman; and we’re like her, rather than being as big as Father here.

And as for the snakes, said the grown man, we can’t leave them!

One snake, maybe, said Mickey. but not— He stared as the three snakes somehow morphed into one.

After them! yelled someone in the street, and other voices took up the cry.

Inside—quick. Shut the— Mickey yelled as the refugees dashed in. Lou slammed and bolted the door behind them. Mickey slapped the getaway switch on the wall. He felt the Exotics Bar lurch; and he knew that Troy was far behind, spatially and temporally.

I’m Laocoön, said the older man. These are my twin sons, Antiphas and Melanthus.

The Lay-o-coon? asked Mickey, shaking hands with all three, then leading them toward the bar.

Antiphas said, It’s more like ‘Lay-oh-coh-on,’ but you’re close enough.

After a closer look at the brothers’ lean, tight-muscled bodies, Mickey decided they were indeed older than he had first thought, more like eighteen or so. To their father, he said, Then you’re the one that tried to warn the Trojans about the Greeks in the wooden horse, and then Apollo sent snakes to kill the three of you…

Is that what they’re saying—about the snakes, I mean? asked Melanthus, as Laocoön and his two sons settled down on bar-stools.

You know how myths—how stories get started. Mickey grabbed a bottle of resinated wine. He almost served it straight, remembered ancient Greek customs, then carefully watered each serving.

Laocoön gulped down half a glass of watered wine, then sipped the rest. The Achaeans chased us because I almost persuaded the Trojans to burn that wooden horse—with the Achaeans still inside—as a sacrifice to Apollo. The Trojans chased us because I didn’t convince them to burn the horse. Apollo got upset because His priests are supposed to be chaste, and when their mother unloaded our two sons on me last month—they were cramping her style, to coin a phrase—anyway, it became all too obvious that I had been sowing my oats, to invent another phrase. Aphrodite found out the snakes were supposed to kill us, but She got to them before they got to us. She has a thing for lovers, especially illicit ones, and so She…

He paused to pat the head of the remaining snake, now looped over his shoulder and around his waist. The snake rubbed its head against Laocoön’s hand in a cat-like gesture, then went down onto Laocoön’s stiffening prong. The twins’ prongs were stiffening too. As they, Mickey, and Lou watched, the snake began sucking Laocoön off.

Antiphas looked back over his bare shoulder at the entrance. If the doors—

Not to worry, Mickey said. We’re already millennia and parsecs away from Troy. I’ll check the controls to see where and when we are now.

Antiphas stroked his own shaft. Before, they worked on all of us at once; now we’ll have to take turns.

Lou said, There’s a quiet booth in the corner where you can get comfortable and—and maybe, while you’re resting between rounds, the snake could… He led them away, squirming out of his tight T-shirt. Mickey noticed the reserved sign on the booth inhabited by the Bar’s mint-green, carnivorous goo now stated the warning in archaic Greek, using Linear B characters.

* * * *

Some minutes later—if one can really measure time in the Exotics Bar when it’s traveling between Then and Now—Mickey saw an ethereal figure slowly materialize—haloed, winged, and draped in glowing white that didn’t quite hide the figure’s beautifully proportioned physique.

No, no, not while I’m on duty, said the figure as Mickey reached for the seldom-tapped bottle of ambrosia. But perhaps when I’ve finished the presentation? But first— He produced a scroll and cleared his throat. In recognition of your recent refusal to fall into Temptation, I have been authorized by Very Highest Authority to present you with this. Now where…

He groped in thin air and found a white vase which held a single white lily. Ah, here it is. For you, a Fragrant Blossom, far more effective than whatever debased copy of the Real Thing that you were previously offered by the Adversary and quite properly turned down. I am sure you will use it solely and exclusively in performance of Good Works—no, no; don’t thank me; I am but a messenger for—

Yes, yes, I know: for the Very Highest Authority, Mickey replied, carefully emphasizing the capital letters.

You have only to persuade a petitioner to partake of the Fragrant Blossom’s essence, to sniff at it; and…

I know, I know. I do appreciate the gesture, but as a bartender, I already—but again, thanks. Now, a small libation of Ambrosia? On the house, of course.

Now that I’m off duty, delighted. In fact, since I’m not in a hurry…

Take your time; here’s the bottle. Mickey glanced to one side; one of the barmaids was looking interested. Turning to her, he said, Henrietta, since business is so light, you don’t need to be on duty either, so why don’t you…?

…and before he finished the sentence, she, the bottle, and the messenger—whose splendid physique was showing more clearly now as his drapery faded into mist and swirled away—were off to another curtained booth.

* * * *

LOU had just fed his load into the hungry snake when he felt the Bar shudder to a stop in time and space. He scrambled out of the booth, realized he was still naked, and turned to grab his clothes.

No time to dress now—you’ll do fine as you are, Mickey said, looking up from controls half-hidden between taps for Bitter and Mild. Lou felt himself blush, looked down, saw that his prong was not only erect, but also still a-drip with his cream, and blushed harder. He saw Mickey scowl at the controls again. I don’t recognize any of those coördinates—in space, time, or reality. Let’s take a look outside.

And outside, when Lou drew the bolts and opened the door, appeared to be a small spaceport, to judge by two travel-worn spaceships parked off to one side, but whether the Bar had landed on a distant planet or in the far future, he couldn’t tell: the scene was peaceful, the spaceport’s one street empty of traffic—human or otherwise. Or almost empty; two men rounded a corner and trotted to the bar’s entrance—astronauts, Lou decided, by the stylized spaceships on the buckles of their belts—which, along with sturdy boots, were all they wore on their well-muscled bodies—and up to something interesting, by their lusty erections.

You studs on the lam? Lou asked. This place— He waved at the inside of the Bar. —is turning into a rescue vehicle for naked guys on the run.

Other way around, said one of the naked men. We’re looking for a big, lusty stud for some research work—somebody like you, if you’ve got a few minutes—let me introduce ourselves: I’m Flash Rogers— They shook hands. —and this is Buck Gordon. Lou shook hands with the other man.

Not the famous Flash—

No, no; our mothers thought it would be a cute idea to name us after those guys but they got the names mixed up, and—

Come back soon as you’re done, called Mickey. I gotta check the locator program before we take off again.

* * * *

Flash and Buck hurried Lou along the street to a door that dilated to let them in, then snapped shut behind them. Inside, Lou saw a sloping bench. Before he quite realized what was going on, Buck and Flash had eased him back onto the bench and strapped him to it by his wrists, thighs, and ankles.

What the fuck… Lou growled as Flash connected Lou’s balls to the bench with two short, insulated wires and Buck ran a third wire from the bench to Lou’s glans.

Now, the crucial test, said Flash, brandishing a fourth wire—this one with an insulated electrical probe at the free end.

And since our subject is nicely secured, said Buck, we can abandon these disguises. And as Lou watched, the two naked spacemen morphed into a pair of erect, purple penises a meter and a half tall. Each had two tentacles sprouting from its sides, two webbed feet under ball-shaped bulges, and two stalked eyes that studied their captive.

One purple penis waved a tentacle at a wall, where Flash Rogers and Buck Gordon had been fastened by straps at wrists and knees. Flash’s prong was up and hard; Buck’s was limp but stiffening.

We’re the real thing, said Flash. These—these Things copied our appearance after they finished testing our prongs with their electrical gear. Now—

—they’re working on mine. By the way, I’m Lou. You’re still…?

Flash Rogers and Buck Gordon, said Flash. As for what they’re working on…

Lou felt a tingle in his balls, felt another from one contact on his prong-top to the other. He looked down as a third tingle rippled the length of his rigid shaft from tip to his balls. The purple penis wielding the electrical probe touched it to Lou’s shaft near the base and drew the probe’s tip slowly up toward his glans. Pulsing currents followed the probe until his shaft was throbbing from base to tip. Twice more, the probe stroked along his shaft.

Lou felt pressure build down in the roots of his prong, felt and watched his prong quiver, watched and felt it jerk once—twice—and then pump out a long jet of creamy semen that went on and on and on.

Wow, sighed Lou. That was—

Yeah, said Buck. Just watching almost made me—

—shoot again, said Flash.

If this feels this good, asked Lou, pausing to pump out another squirt, then how come—

—they’ve got us strapped down like this? asked Buck. It’s what they’re going to do next—that’s why.

Lou waited for the momentary pause between spurts, then tensed the muscled of his arms, chest, and legs as hard as he could. The next shock triggered another spurt, jerked his muscles even harder—and suddenly the straps holding him down burst asunder, releasing him.

The purple penises jumped back, then scuttled away through a door that slammed behind them with a solid, metallic thunk. Lou stood up, reached the two spacemen in a couple of strides, and freed them from the wall.

Thanks, said Flash, rubbing first his stiff cock, then his wrists.

And likewise, said Buck. Which way is out?

But in the next room, Lou saw two more muscular studs, one blond, the other black-haired, each standing behind a crotch-high pillar marked waffle-iron #1 or waffle-iron #2. Lou looked more closely; the two studs’ prongs and balls lay between the plates of the waffle-irons, which were slowly compressing those organs as he, Flash, and Buck watched. The blond’s organs were the flatter of the pair; a moment later, Lou heard the blond gasp aloud and look down as his shaft, then one testicle and—a few seconds later—the other ruptured under the crushing pressure.

What is going on here? Lou demanded.

The two studs glanced at each other. The blond said, Well, we’re professional models, and this artist hired us for some g—uh gen— He glanced at his naked companion.

Genital torture sketches, said the black-haired stud. These are supposed to be—

Well, these things started out as artist’s props: just paper and cardboard, said the blond, picking up the story, only—somehow—they turned into the real things. When they started working on us—actually crushing and cooking our balls and prongs—

Anyway, the artist took off, saying he was going to fix it—he said something about a Reality Generator going out of synch, but—

Lou imagined his own, still-rigid shaft in one of those waffle irons and shuddered. You want us to get you loose?

The two studs glanced at each other. The blond spoke: Well, now that I’ve gone this far—there’s waffle batter along with my prong and my balls in this thing, and I’d kind of like to find out what I’ll taste like when I finish getting cooked like this.

The black-haired stud said, "And as for me—well, my prong hasn’t burst yet, but it’s real close and—and I’d kind of like to find out how it’ll feel