Tangled Sheets

by Michael T. Ford

  Mike clenched his ass around my hand, surrounding me in warm flesh. “Please, Coach,” he gasped. “Fuck me. Fuck my ass.”

  “Are you going to give Coach any more trouble?” I asked, slapping his ass again.

  “No,” he cried. “No. I’ll do anything Coach wants. Just fill my hole with that prick.”

  I pulled my hand out and spat a fat wad straight into his butthole, rubbing it around so that the hairs clung to the sides of his thighs. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I wanted him. Positioning my cockhead at the center, I drove forward in one long, breathless rush, burying my prick to the hilt inside his burning shitter. Mike let out a bone-shaking wail as I impaled him on my thick pole, crying out in joy and pain as I shredded his asshole. “Jesus Christ,” he said between wracking sobs, “I can’t take any more, Coach.”

  “Well, you’re going to,” I said, beginning to pump his hole. “You’re going to take it all and love it, you damn pussy.”

  Mike’s hole collapsed around my shaft like wet silk as I fucked him, gripping the sides and slipping along me in hot rushes every time I pushed into him. The feeling was intense, and I fucked him harder, slamming in and out until I could see his ass cheeks turning bright red from the pounding I was giving him. I pushed his knees back further, until he was almost bent double and I could watch my cock slip in and out of him. It turned me on seeing his hole swallowing up inch after inch of me, and I almost lost it just watching my dickhead pop in and out of his cherry.

  “Do you love it?” I asked, slowing down the speed of my thrusts so that Mike started to clench his ass around me to urge me on. “Do you really want Coach to fuck your sorry asshole, boy?”

  “Yes,” he said, the veins in his arms swelling as he twisted and turned against the ropes at his wrists. “Oh, Christ, do I love it. I want your cock in my ass forever, fucking me like that.”

  “Good boy,” I said, letting myself fall forward between his legs so that I was lying on top of him and looking down into his face. “That’s what Coach wants to hear.” I rammed my prick in and out of him, supporting myself on my hands while I filled his ass with my piece. He was still wearing his Braves hat, and there was sweat running down his cheeks. Bending my elbows, I licked up some of the salty drops from his neck while he sucked at my forearms, his tongue lapping at the hair hungrily.

  The smell of our sweaty bodies and the heat of our skins pressing together overcame me. I could feel the hair on Mike’s belly scraping along mine in soft rasping movements and knew I was about to lose it inside him. Pushing myself back up, I grabbed his ankles and spread his legs wide, hammering away at his welcoming hole while his prick bounced against his stomach and his balls slapped against my belly. “Coach is about to fill you with a big load of jock juice,” I said, and grabbed his dick in my hand. “I want you to come with me.”

  The batting glove must have been torture on Mike’s overheated cock, because he started to cry out after only a few strokes. “Oh shit,” he yelled. “I’m going to fucking come all over my chest. Keep fucking my ass, Coach. Keep fucking me.”

  “Let me see your load, boy,” I ordered seconds before I started spewing inside him. My whole body stiffened as a stream poured from my cock and slathered his insides with a sticky heat. Mike felt me coming inside him, and another stroke of my gloved hand brought him over the edge. His shaft rippled as blast after blast erupted from his tool and exploded into the air. Drops of his juice coated his chest hair from his neck to his crotch, falling onto his thighs and covering my arm in tiny white spots of warmth.

  I was still shooting when I pulled my slimy cock out of his hole and pumped myself to another shattering climax, sending another blast across Mike’s belly and laying two thick lines of cum down the hair of his torso. When I was finished, I looked down at him. His shirt was in tatters at his sides, and his body was sopping wet with puddles of our mingled loads. His prick, still hard, was clenched tightly in my fist, the last drops running over my gloved fingers as it throbbed with heat.

  “Well,” I said, leaning down to kiss his mouth. “You gave Coach quite the workout. Maybe you’ll be a good team player after all.”

  Mike’s eyes gleamed brightly beneath the shadow of his baseball cap. “You’re not such a bad coach, either,” he said. “Now untie me.”

  I got up and turned on the television. The game was just ending, and the score was not in Atlanta’s favor. I turned to Mike. “Looks like there’s going to be a final game tomorrow night,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just leave you tied up until then.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said warily.

  I walked over and climbed back on top of his sticky, cum-splattered chest, rubbing his prick along the crack of my ass and letting the head rest against my hole. “I don’t know,” I said as I slipped an inch of him into me. “You’ve proven that you’re pretty good at catching. But I think your pitching needs some work.”

  Washing Up

  This is the very first story I ever wrote. I remember getting the idea for it while sitting at my desk watching the window washers go past. It’s a pretty straightforward story, but it was enough to interest a magazine in it. I think they titled it “Hi-Rise Sex.”

  The computer screen in front of me stared back blankly, no expression on its empty, blue face. I’d been staring at it for nearly thirty minutes, and I still hadn’t thought of anything worthwhile, let alone convincing, to say to the clients I’d have to face in less than an hour. So much for getting to the office early and whipping something up. It had seemed a reasonable enough idea the night before while I was pumping my cock into the trick I’d picked up at the gym instead of writing up my notes. But when you have some squirming stud’s legs over your shoulders and your dick up his ass, anything will make sense.

  As I thought back on the previous evening’s activities, my prick started to stiffen against my leg. I rubbed it through my suit pants, picturing again the guy’s face as I nailed him. His butthole had melted under my cock, and he’d groaned like prey down for the kill when I flooded my jism up his chute, digging his fingers into my ass and spewing his load over his chest.

  I shut my eyes, trying to clear my head. This was no time for a jerk-off fantasy. I had to come up with a bunch of good reasons why my clients should go with my ad campaign, or the three months I’d spent creating ideas for selling their clothes would be worth about as much as a pair of cum-stained shorts.

  When I opened my eyes, the cursor was still blinking stupidly back at me from the screen, flashing off and on like a demonic firefly. I typed out a few lines, read them over, and then erased them. I now had forty-five minutes left.

  While I was agonizing over what to say, a shadow passed over the top of my screen. I looked across to the window at the other side of my office, expecting to see storm clouds rolling over the morning sun. A thin band of black stretched along the top of the glass, like the sea against the horizon. As it sank even lower, a pair of big scuffed work boots came into view, and I realized it was only the window washers descending from the roof of the building to do the daily cleaning.

  The platform continued to come down, and the work boots turned into a pair of well-worn jeans speckled with dirt and oil. The body packed into them was large and solid, and the faded denim wrapped tightly around the curves of the muscular thighs and ass. At the crotch, the material was worn white where it ran around the contours of a near-bursting basket, outlining a hefty cock.

  More of the man outside my window was revealed as inch after inch was slowly lowered into view. The jeans gave way to a white tank top stretched over a broad chest, the nipples poking up through the thin cotton like stones hidden beneath a blanket of snow. His muscular arms were tanned the rich color of dark beer, and his hands were large and strong.

  Finally a handsome Italian face came into sight. Sleepy black eyes looked out from underneath a shock of thick black hair that crashed down over the forehead like a wave. Thick, sensuous lips lay beneath a straight aquilin
e nose, and a dusting of beard shaded the wide jaw. He looked like any one of the hundreds of blue-collar types who earned their livings working the docks or doing construction, the kind that sweated it out all day and then went home to a wife and three kids to spend the night watching the fights on television.

  When the platform was level with the bottom of my window, the workman pulled a lever at his side. There was a low grinding sound, and the platform stopped its downward ride. He leaned down and pulled a wiper from a bucket at his feet. Swiping it across the top of my window, he hid himself behind a film of water, which ran down the glass in soapy rivers, weaving lines in the grime. Before the water hit the bottom of the pane, he wiped it away, pushing it to one side and leaving the glass clean and clear.

  He worked the wiper across the window several more times, each time coating it with another wave of soap and then rinsing it. As he worked, I could see his mouth moving, but I couldn’t see who he was talking to. Every so often he would laugh, revealing a row of even white teeth. Because I couldn’t hear him, I felt like I was watching a silent movie where part of the action was taking place offscreen.

  Although the window was only a few feet away, and I could see him clearly through the glass, the big stud seemed not to notice me at all. When he was finished washing, he put his wiper back into the bucket and leaned against the railing of the platform, looking out over the city below him. He was talking again, but the object of his conversation was still out of sight. I wondered how he could rest so easily on a platform that, to me, appeared to be supported only by two threadlike strands of steel thirty floors above the street.

  I was turning my attention back to my now-urgent work when the big stud turned and tugged at his waist. The buttons of his fly escaped easily from the grasp of the holes, sliding open smoothly as his fingers pulled the front of his jeans apart. Reaching in, he lifted out a long, thick prick and a set of low-hanging balls nestled in a patch of black hair. He definitely had my full attention now, and all thoughts of my presentation were forgotten as I waited to see what the hell he was up to. His cock was resting on his flat palm, and he was stretching it out, as if to measure it. He was still talking, and his free hand gestured irritatedly in the air, as if he were arguing.

  As he continued to talk, another man came into view. He was obviously the person the hunk had been talking to, and must have been washing the window on the other side of my office wall. He was wearing overalls with no shirt on underneath them. His close-cropped hair was blond, and his chest was covered in the same light fur. A tattoo of the Marine Corps emblem wrapped around one thick bicep. He was pointing down at the big dick in front of him and shaking his head.

  The blond undid the straps to his overalls, letting the front fall down. Then, undoing the buttons at the side, he slipped them down over his waist. The hair on his chest ran down his ripped stomach in a wide swatch, ending in a tangle of golden curls between his thighs. A half-erect prick swelled out over a hairy ballsac, the blue veins that twined around the shaft faintly visible through the pale skin.

  Grasping his meat in his hand, he stood right in front of the darker man, his overalls pooled around his paint-spattered boots. They seemed to be comparing their pricks as if they were the day’s catch. While the Italian’s bronzed rod had a good two inches over the blond’s, it wasn’t nearly as thick as the other man’s swelling piece.

  They continued to argue as their cocks grew harder and harder. The blond was slowly stroking his dick, his hand sliding seductively up and down the hard-on that angled up from his groin. He reached out and took the other man’s balls in his hand, hefting them in one big paw and kneading them roughly. The Italian responded by running his work-hardened hands over the blond’s beefy chest, rubbing the hair that covered his pecs and pinching his tits between his fingers.

  I was now acutely aware of a dull ache deep in my belly. While I had been watching the action outside my window, I had gotten one hell of a ramrod, and now my cock was straining painfully against the confines of my pants. Leaning back in my leather desk chair, I quickly undid my belt and yanked my pants off. Fumbling at the knot in my tie, I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it open. My prick was lying against my stomach like a steel beam, and a trickle of cock dew stained my throbbing head.

  By swinging my chair around, I could put my feet on my desk and have a front-row view of the two hunks playing with one another three hundred feet above the city. As I watched their soundless movements, I fisted my dick and let the action unfold before me. The blond was on his knees now, running his tongue along the Italian’s long prick. As he washed the length of the shaft he manhandled his own balls, which swayed heavily under him with every beat of their master’s hand. His head moved steadily back and forth as he slipped the other man into his mouth, shoving more and more of the glistening rod down his throat.

  The Italian had stripped off his tank top and jeans and stood naked on the platform, wearing only his boots. Putting his hands behind the blond’s neck, he pulled him away from his prick. Then he pushed the man’s face deep into his crotch, forcing him to take his balls into his mouth. As the blond sucked eagerly, his buddy’s spit-shined poker hung over his shoulder, sliding over the bunched muscles of his back as he worked his face between the suntanned legs. A thin thread of man juice slid out of the piss slit and down the curve of the blond’s back.

  After a few minutes of having his nuts cleaned by the blond’s hungry lips, the swarthy window cleaner reached down and pulled him up. Holding their cocks together in one hand, he pumped them steadily. The dark skin of his prick stood out against the blond’s whiteness, and as his hand slid up their shafts their balls pulled up and slapped together. The blond put his hand around the other man’s head, pulling him in. Their lips parted, and their tongues entered each other’s mouths, snaking in and out like the flames of a fire.

  With both cocks still in his hand, the Italian began to explore the blond’s body with his mouth, his tongue tracing the line of his jaw and running down into the hollow of his neck. He licked slowly at the thick hair on his chest, letting his mouth cover one nipple and sucking slowly. He bit gently, and the blond pushed against him and arched his back. The light-haired stud lifted his arm behind his head, revealing a forest of sweat-soaked hair, and the Italian drank eagerly, his tongue lapping up every last bit.

  Following the valley of the blond’s chest, the black-haired man worked his mouth down his stomach until he was on his knees, the other man’s prick jutting into his face. Parting his lips, he pushed his mouth down the length of the thick tool until his nose was pressed against the hairy stomach. His cheeks moved in and out as his head slid slowly up and down, tasting every inch of the shaft buried in his throat. The blond pumped his face steadily, pulling out until the tip of his dripping piece just brushed the lips that waited eagerly to suck it back in, then burying his full length in the man’s gullet until his swollen nuts nuzzled tightly against his mouth.

  As I soaked in the sight of the blond bull’s prick disappearing inch after inch into the Italian’s beautiful face, my own hand beat steadily against my balls, rising and falling the length of my shaft in time to the thrusting of the big man’s hips. Although I couldn’t hear anything, the blond’s face reflected what the Italian was doing to his prick. His eyes were closed, and each time his man meat slammed deep into the face of the man on his knees in front of him, the muscles in his face twitched with pleasure.

  Sitting back in my air-conditioned office, with the coolness of the leather chair under my ass, I could only imagine what the men outside my window smelled like, tasted like, and felt like. It was like watching animals at the zoo, their actions visible through the thin glass but ultimately untouchable. Having to imagine their moans and whispered words made me even hotter, and I gripped my cock even tighter.

  For what seemed like hours, I watched as the blond sank his crank again and again into those soft lips. Then the dark man took a final long suck and pulled away. He motioned for t
he blond to turn around so that he was facing me through the window. The blond put his hands on the glass and looked right into my office. I could see where his fingers pressed against the glass, as if he were trapped under ice and was trying to push through. He was staring right down at my hand flying along my dick, but his eyes looked through me as if I weren’t there at all.

  Dipping his hand into the metal pail at his feet, the Italian scooped out a handful of soapy water, splashing it over his cock and balls. He slid his hand up and down his prick, working the soap into a light lather. Then he slipped his hand into the blond’s ass crack. With his long, circular strokes, he greased up the opening to the other man’s chute, sliding his fingers in and out lazily while the stud eagerly pressed his ass against his hand.

  Positioning the head of his prick against the blond’s butt, he pressed forward, driving his cock home inside the workingman’s ass with one thrust. The blond gritted his teeth, and I could see a momentary flash of pain cross his face as his cherry stretched around the prick inside him. A thread of fuck juice streamed from the tip of his dick and dripped down onto his hand, which was wrapped around his tool.

  The Italian began to rock back and forth on the platform, slow-fucking the stud pinned against the glass. He wrapped his arms around the big man’s chest, fingering his tits as he worked his ass from behind. The blond was jerking himself off as he got plowed, his tattoo pulsing as the muscle in his arm flexed. He fisted his cock quickly, slamming his balls against the glass every time the man behind him pushed further into his hole.

  The length of my own strokes shortened, too, as the motion of my hand sped up. As the Italian buried his prong over and over in the blond’s backside, my balls began to fill up, threatening to spill over at any moment. Watching the blond’s hairy nuts swing under him with each jerk of his hand, I pulled on my own pulsing balls, rubbing them against the smooth leather of my chair.