Plaid Nights Anthology

by Torquere Press LLC

  The Scot moved to Tom’s cock. He took as much of the beast in as he could. Good luck with that, I figured. I turned to my friend and smiled. He smiled in return and kissed me, his tongue snaking its way inside my mouth. He exhaled into my lungs as his cock got sucked. Mine was getting jacked again. I could come then, I knew, but held back as best as I could.

  “Stop,” I soon yelped.

  The Scot released both our cocks. “You close, kid?” I nodded. “And you?” he asked Tom. Tom, too, nodded. “Ah, youth.”

  Tell me about it, I thought. “Mind if I ask a favor?”

  The Scot got to his feet. “Ask away, kid.”

  “Mind if suck my friend’s asshole real quick?”

  “Really?” said Tom.

  I nodded. “I see it in the shower. I, you know, always wondered what it tasted like.” Seriously, always.

  “Really?” he repeated.

  I grinned, a blush working its way up my neck. “Well, it is a nice looking ass and asshole.”

  “Yep,” said the Scot. “That it is. And favor granted.”

  Tom paused, but not all that long, and then got on his knees. The Scott and I stared down. Tom did have a mighty fine little ass on him, covered as it was in a light ginger down, and when he spread his legs even wider—balls dangling, billy club of a prick hovering in midair—his pink, puckered hole winked out at us. It was ringed in a darker shade of red hair. The Scot and I both groaned at the sight of it, until I thought we might have to fight over who would be doing the sucking. Luckily, I dropped to my knees first.

  The sun dappled off my friend’s perfect ass. I took a deep whiff before I dove in. He smelled like sweat and sex and a bit of soap. I lapped and licked at the ring, tickling his low hangers as I did so. Tom moaned when my tongue worked its way inside. The Scot moaned as he jacked away, watching the scene unfold. I, in turn, moaned at all the moaning going on around me. The nearby crickets had nothing on the three of us.

  I upped the ante and slid a spit-slick index finger up and in and back. I just wanted to see what he felt like in there. It was all smooth and muscular. It was beautiful. And so I added a second finger to the mix. Tom’s back arched as he bucked his ass into my hand. His sweat-soaked back gleamed.

  “Close,” Tom soon panted. “Close.”

  I removed my fingers and stood back up. Tom did the same. He moved closer and whispered in my ear. “Promise me we’ll finish this when we get back to the dorm.”

  I chuckled. “That’s a given, Tom,” I whispered back. “Except my cock’s gonna replace those fingers.”

  “Also a given,” said my friend.

  “Less talk, more come,” said the Scot, good-naturedly. “On your knees, kid. Time for that prize of yours.”

  “Yeah, Tom,” I said. “On your knees.”

  Tom shrugged. “Fine by me.”

  And so the Scot and I were now standing side by side, Tom down below us. I locked eyes with my friend again. His green put the field around us to shame. “You’re beautiful,” I said, again blushing, my mouth one step ahead of my brain on that one.

  “That he is,” said the Scot with a heavy sigh as he took my cock in his hand and I did the same with his. Tom then made it a threesome, his cock in his hand, all three tools summarily getting stroked, fast, faster still.

  “Toss it,” panted the Scot in my ear. “Toss it, kid.”

  Sweat stung my eyes, but still I stared at Tom. After all, a moth never looks away from a flame. And then my legs began to buckle and my cock thickened even further in the stranger’s adept grip. I shot a second later, come spewing up before raining down on my friend’s pale, freckled chest. It dripped down in great big gobs of white.

  The Scot came next, his cock so thick in my grip that it was almost impossible to keep ahold of it. Still, hold on I did, a geyser of spunk spewing out a moment later, joining mine on Tom’s rapidly rising and falling chest, a comefall of it spilling over his belly before hitting the ground below.

  Tom’s jaw hung limp as he loudly panted, his massive cock but a blur in his hand as it too shot and shot, a torrent of aromatic come flinging this way and that, hitting everything in its smoldering path.

  “Fucking hot,” I groaned, draining the Scot’s heavy balls as best I could.

  “Fucking right,” agreed the Scot, jacking out every last drop of come from my now aching dick.

  “Yep,” said Tom, smiling up at us, come still gliding down his pale chest. “Hope one of you brought a napkin. Or six.”

  ***

  A couple of hours later, we found ourselves back in my dorm room, my cock buried so far up Tom’s stunning little ass that it was wonder it didn’t poke out of his mouth. I gazed over at the chair by the bed. A newly bought kilt sat there, resplendent in tartan green and blue. I grinned as I stared at it. I grinned wider as I stared at him.

  “Think we can find that field again?” I rasped, balls-deep inside of him.

  He nodded, mouth in a rapturous pant. “Yeah, but who gets to wear the kilt then?”

  I groaned as I came, filling that rubber inside of him with ounce after ounce of molten hot come. “We’ll take turns, Tom,” I groaned in his ear, fighting to catch my breath. “We’ll take turns.”

  The End

  More from Rob Rosen:

  Novel:

  Hot Lava

  Stories:

  “Cowboy and Indian” from the Fever anthology

  “The Dingo Ate My Dildo” from the Dawg Days anthology

  “The Prince and the Frog” from the Torqued Tales anthology

  “UPSex” from the Men In Uniform anthology

  “The Great Escape” from the Family Time anthology

  “The Domesticated Zombie” from the He Loves Me For My Brainsss anthology

  “As You Wish” from the Masks Off! anthology

  Whiskey and Want

  by Megan McFerren

  Andrew returns home to Texas for the bachelor party of a friend with Scottish heritage. He finds himself in a kilt and a dive bar, where he meets a mutual acquaintance who helps to remind him how simple country life can be.

  I know I should avoid starting off with liquor, but I flag the bartender anyway.

  Scotch on the rocks just seems too appropriate when one is taking advantage of an open bar at a Scottish bachelor party. Scottish-Texan is really more accurate—there’s not an accent among us from north of El Paso. Even in the dim lights of the bar, we make a hell of a sight. Cowboy hats shining with sweat in their steamed felt, and leather boots made pale where the mud was chipped off that morning. Black tuxedo coats despite the bride’s admonitions as the whole herd of us tumbled out to the waiting cars. And kilts.

  We’re wearing kilts.

  The groom-to-be insisted on it, which is to say that his father insisted on it. Something about tradition and ancestry I’m sure, as if any one of us aren’t watered-down American mutts. Special occasions make people strange, and so far, I can’t say I mind it. Leaning forward over the bar, arms folded beneath me, I rise up onto my toes, oxfords shined bright enough to reflect the hot neon glow of beer logos. Just above the knit socks, drawn up to my knees, the hem of thin wool sweeps enough to tickle the back of my legs and I lower back to my heels again.

  “This for some sorta movie?”

  I could drown myself in his languid drawl.

  Whiskey works wonders.

  “Bachelor party,” I tell him, stealing away my scotch with quick fingers to take a sip and let it burn.

  He makes a dubious sound. Maybe he’s disappointed that he’s not got reason to throw out all the queers in kilts—though I’m fairly sure I’m the only one who is that. Perhaps he’s actually sad that we’re not filming a movie. Maybe he has dreams of acting. Sees himself on the big screen, or up on the stage. I’ll have dreams of burying my face beneath his biceps, which stretch tight the threadbare confines of his T-shirt sleeves.

  We all want what we can’t have, and there’s no harm in that.

  I’
m careful to smooth the wool flat beneath my ass before I sit, with a turn of wrist and sweep of hand. It’s a very prim sort of gesture, not the kind I’d ever normally find myself indulging in, but neither do I often find myself indulging in wearing a skirt. Never, actually, and as I cross my bare thighs together, I have to wonder why. It’s all fantastically indulgent.

  There are, of course, those who abstained. They’ve got the same felt hats and boots as everyone else, the same jackets slung over pearl-snap shirts—Texas’ answer to fancy dress—and opted instead for the same jeans they’ve probably worn everyday for years, fraying just around the hems and imprinted with their wallet, squared pale in the back. Though there’s not a one of us over thirty, I know that these are the guys who never left. Who never moved to a bigger city. Who stayed right on the farm with their fathers learning how to grow cotton.

  I envy them, a little. While I’ve always been more tumbleweed than mesquite, I envy the way their roots mingle with the soil itself, and that the same sky that was above them on the day they were born is the one that’ll be there when they die. I admire the Zen-like contentment that such a life requires, avoiding the frantic rush of more, better, faster that drives most of us to an early grave. They’re not only not on the little hamster wheel of capitalism, racing as fast as their paws can carry them—they’ve not even left the little pressed plastic house in the corner of the cage.

  I look at the scotch blinking bright amber in my hand. I’m not drunk yet, but I’m well on my way when I start comparing men to rodents. I hear my name among the loud laughs and ribbing, the dawning debates about our college’s various football failings, and blink at Chris—the man of the hour, and the whole reason I left the safe confines of my subway map to come back.

  “You zonin’ out over there? I was tellin’ Jake about how you up and fucked off to New York City.”

  I overhear the Pace Picante joke from past my shoulder and ignore it, leaning forward over the round, sticky table to close the distance between us.

  “’Fucked off’ is one way to put it, I guess. ‘Got the fuck out of Texas fast as my legs could carry me’ is another,” I laugh. My tongue feels heavy, not only from the scotch. This place has unwound the stiff East Coast tension of my voice, made it slow and dense. It’s only a matter of time before I slide lazily back into used-to-coulds and y’alls.

  Jake’s smile lights his eyes. “You grew up here?”

  “Couple counties over.”

  “Farm boy?”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  I know he is, by the wear of sun-ruddy red across the bridge of Jake’s nose and spanning dark beneath his eyes, which are bright with amusement. He’s got broad shoulders and a wide chest, thick arms barely constrained by his gunmetal grey shirt, tuxedo coat slung across the back of his chair. His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, and I force myself to look away from the sinewy muscles of his forearms when he folds his hands across the table.

  “We met in college,” Chris explains when I’m stuck for words. “Different majors but Andrew helped me out with papers on Shakespeare and —”

  “Chris helped me with making any kind of sense in math,” I finish. “Where’d you go to school?”

  Jake rolls his shoulders in a shrug and grins. “Y’all’s rival,” he answers. “Studied ag.”

  I laugh a little, because of course that’s what he studied, and of course the big city-bound runaway studied literature instead of anything as comparatively useful as agriculture.

  “What do you do in New York City?” he teases, or at least that’s how it sounds to me, and I take a moment to suck down a mouthful of ice in lieu of water that might steady my head from swimming with the imaginary thrill.

  “Odds and ends,” I tell him. “Bartending pays the bills, but I write with whatever time I can find.”

  “Jake, you still write?” Chris interjects, and I arch a brow.

  “When I can,” Jake says.

  “What do you write?” I ask, smiling a little more despite myself.

  “Poems,” Jake says. His permanent sunburn reddens a little more with a blush, and I am charmed, entirely charmed by this tawny-haired, green-eyed man with his shy smile and easy grace. “Lots of time to think when I’m up on the tractor.”

  “A cowboy poet.” I can’t help but sound impressed.

  “Something like that,” he says with an absent shrug and another devastatingly wholesome smile. “Just a hobby. Not much else to do out here. Don’t imagine you’ve got that problem where you’re at now.”

  “You’d be surprised. It’s a big city but it’s expensive. I spend more time at home binging TV than anything.” Why? Why can’t I stop myself from adding these things in? I glance at my whiskey with reproach.

  “So not like the movies—wining and dining and bright lights and parties?”

  “I wish.” I echo a laugh into my glass to drain the dregs from it.

  My voice is drowned out by a sudden pulse of music riveting up through the floor. The familiar sad twang of country songs is swallowed up by thumping rap, which sounds more like the city than the town we’re in now, clashing as much as I feel like I do, drawn thin between roots and stars. I grimace, laughing, when Chris lets out a whoop and pumps his fists into the air, and follow the other gazes that turn toward the door.

  Of course. It wouldn’t be Texas without beautiful women and it wouldn’t be a bachelor party without beautiful women taking off their clothes. I clap anyway, and remind myself not to be a selfish shit. I’ve gotten to come and drink for free, with friends I haven’t seen in years, and I got to play a bit of Braveheart at the same time. I’ve got nothing against freckle-cheeked redheads. I prefer mine a bit more male, of course, but what can you do?

  We all want what we can’t have, and there’s no harm in that.

  She’s dressed in plaid much like the rest of us, strutting into the bar with a rakish grin and a school-girl jumper, the best I’m sure she could manage on getting the request for something befitting a Scottish—Scottish-Texan—bachelor party. Down one side of her face, she’s painted a stripe of blue, and it somehow works to convey a certain Highland wildness. I glance to Jake, whose expression hasn’t changed from a patient, curious amusement, and look back to see the stripper’s long legs carry her across the room toward my old college buddy, who’s watching with a wide-eyed delight.

  A torrent of scarlet hair cascades across my face, smelling sweet as brown sugar, and I slide aside from where—I don’t know, let’s call her Victoria—from where Victoria straddles Chris. Just making room, of course, for her to do that incredible circular hair flip again. Just making room, of course, so someone else can grab my seat who’ll enjoy this as much as I’ll enjoy my third scotch. No one seems to notice when I make my escape, their primal gazes fixed on the little local goddess descending on the roadhouse dive.

  I’m nearly to the bar when my hand is snared hard enough to almost drag me off my feet. Jake blinks at me, and I shove a wayward curl of hair back behind my ear with my free hand. With my hand that isn’t held, still, with work-calloused fingers rough against my wrist.

  “Bathroom’s over there,” I tell Jake, utterly at a loss and dangerously at risk of losing myself further still in sea-glass green eyes.

  “Thought I’d get another drink.”

  I can’t help but smile. Even though I try to press it away from my lips, the tug finds its way to crinkle beside my eyes instead. They narrow.

  “Bar’s over here,” I amend, and only when I start to turn does he let my arm fall free.

  I smear a wake of condensation glittering across the bar when I slide my glass across it, and Jake and I both watch the disparate beads of water cling together, one by one. The music pulses loud enough to drown out anyone beyond arm’s reach, perfect when I can feel him so near to my elbow with his own, that we’re nearly touching. My heart seems to rise, pulling at the moorings that normally hold it securely in place. I can feel my pulse in my throat.

 
“So you went for the kilt, huh?”

  I don’t look up at Jake because I’m not sure I can. I can’t be trusted. Knowing my luck, the only thing to fall from my mouth at seeing him so close would be a too-high flutter of laughter and then a resounding curse against myself for it. Instead, I press a finger to one of the little puddles of water, and watch the bright neon that’s reflected in it break apart.

  “My family’s more Scottish than most of these guys,” I tell him, wry. “You know they used to carry knives in their socks?”

  “Chris and them?”

  “No,” I chuckle. “The Scots. Just here.” I bend, gathering the checkered black-and-olive wool in my hand. Slipping a finger beneath the matching green fold of my knee socks, patterned in ostentatious cables, I run along the curve of my calf, and then shrug. He grins, crooked and sweet, and snorts a laugh.

  “You don’t got one?”

  “Not in my socks,” I tease, but something pulls at me despite the pleasure of pointless flirtation, and I finally let my gaze drift aside to take in the jeans hugging snug against his hips, denim worn pale over thick, strong thighs. My own are half as broad, but all lean muscle. I wonder how our legs would look tangled together, and my throat makes a little click when I swallow. “Decided against it? Or saving your kilt for the wedding day?”

  “I got one,” he shrugs, nose wrinkling when he shakes his head. “Not really my thing.”

  “Too girly?” I challenge, and I tell myself to fucking let it go but by the time I even think that, it’s too late. “You know they were only ever worn by men.”

  Jake ducks his head, and despite my being an absolute asshole, his smile widens. “I do know that.”

  “Just not your thing,” I repeat.

  “I’m not sure I could make it look as good as you do.”

  I blink.

  “My legs are too pale,” he adds, amused, and all the smart-ass responses I’ve ever had dry up and curl away like burning kindling, leaving only one: