Tangled Sheets

by Michael Thomas Ford

  I could feel my face filling with color as he continued to tug on my balls and I gave in to the feeling. I did like it, and he knew it. His strong fingers encircled my cock and balls and squeezed tightly, filling my prick with blood. I tried my best not to gasp, but when he pinched the swollen tip of my dick in his other hand, I almost came. He laughed. “Take your clothes off,” he ordered simply, letting go of my pounding cock.

  Hurrying to obey him, I tore at the buttons on my shirt and clumsily pulled off my boots and jeans. When I was naked, I stood with my hands behind my back, waiting to see what he would say or do. He sat on the bed the whole time, his eyes on my face as the Latino man buried his head in his lap and slurped on his big dick. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry and allowed the man to take his time washing every inch of his cock. Then he pushed him away and stood up.

  Coming toward me, he let his fist move along the length of his dick as he walked, stroking it slowly and fiercely, as though pumping it full of life. When he was right in front of me, he stopped. Taking my hand, he moved it so that his cock was against my palm. My fingers closed around it, and I felt him tense so that the hardness swelled up against me.

  “Do you like that?” he asked. I nodded, feeling the warm flesh under my fingers as I pulled on his shaft.

  He pulled away suddenly, leaving my hand empty. “That’s only for good boys,” he said, grabbing me by the back of the neck. “It seems to me you’ve been a bad boy. A very bad boy. And you know what happens to bad boys, don’t you?”

  I swallowed hard, knowing that I had to answer. “They get punished,” I whispered.

  He pushed me toward the bed. “That’s right,” he barked. “They get punished. Now suck Jose’s cock.”

  Jose leaned back against the pillows on the bed and spread his legs. His cock was stiff, and I remembered that he hadn’t come yet. As soon as I was kneeling on the bed between his thighs, he grabbed my head and sank the entire length of his dick down my throat. It tore at the sides as it roared down my gullet, but I was so worked up I took every inch of him. He was uncut, and thick ooze poured from beneath his taut foreskin as I teased it with my tongue.

  I sucked on Jose as best I could, wishing it were the dark-haired man’s tool I was servicing. Behind me, I heard the whirring of a camera as he started taking pictures of me sucking Jose’s dick. Thinking about all of the photos I’d found in the box, and knowing that now he had ones of me, made me even hornier. My lips slipped up and down Jose’s spit-soaked shaft rapidly as I coaxed him to coming.

  Suddenly I felt a stinging pain on my ass, followed by a red-hot burning sensation that seemed to roll over my skin like water. Before I could figure out what it was, the pain came again. Jose’s cock jumped in my throat as I tried to pull away and see what was causing it, but I felt a strong hand push my head back down.

  “You stay where you are,” the dark man’s voice ordered. “It’s time for the punishment bad boys like you deserve.”

  The slapping came again on my ass, and I realized that I was being spanked with a belt. Each blow on my tender ass pushed me once again onto Jose’s cock, and I swallowed him hungrily as the beautiful warm pain sank into my muscles repeatedly and I tried to absorb it by sucking harder on the cock in my throat. There were tears in my eyes, but it was the most amazing sensation I’d ever felt. It was the same way my father had punished me as a kid, bending me over and slapping my ass until I cried. When he’d finally let me go, I’d run from the room to the bathroom, where I’d jerk my dick and come, sobbing, all over my hand.

  The strokes moved up my ass to my lower back, crisscrossing my skin in short, sharp lashes of pain that made my dick harder with every touch of the leather. I started to anticipate the next blow and let the force of it travel through me, drawing my lips tightly around Jose’s prick at each slap on my skin. My ass cheeks were still on fire from the working-over they’d received, and soon my whole back was tingling with the remnants of the belt’s sting.

  While he beat me, the man continued to tell me what a bad boy I was. It felt a little strange, a man of thirty-three being called a boy, but it didn’t seem to confuse my dick, which remained hard throughout my punishment. When I felt him move in behind me and spread my ass cheeks with his hands, a long pull of anticipation tugged at my balls.

  As he sank one thick finger into my pucker, the man slapped me hard on the ass. “This is what happens to boys who look at things they shouldn’t,” he said, pulling his finger out and replacing it with the head of his cock. Then he slammed into me all at once, pushing himself deep into my ass.

  Pushed forward, I felt Jose’s stomach connect with my nose as his prick disappeared into my mouth. My asshole stretched wide as the man started to fuck me, and I was glad my throat was filled with Jose’s cock so I couldn’t cry out from the pain that seared my shitter. He hadn’t even lubed his dick, and it was killing me.

  Still, it felt wonderful to be used by him like that. His pictures had given me such pleasure, and now I was paying the price for daring to try and get more than that. His rough hands gripped my ass tightly as he savaged me, and the combined feeling of his thick tool pounding my insides while his fingers pinched at my skin sent me into a frenzy. I slobbered over Jose’s cock as I satisfied my mouth with him, pumping his shaft mercilessly while behind me my hole was being tormented by the hottest, roughest fuck I’d ever had.

  Jose came in a rush of jism that flooded my throat with warmth and sent me swallowing crazily to contain it all. Several thick gushes escaped his dickhead before the flow slowed, and I gulped down every drop of it. Behind me, the dark-haired man saw what was happening and blew his own load in my butt, pumping faster and faster as his sticky juice streamed inside me.

  It was all too much, being taken at both ends, and I lost control, spewing drops of cum all over the bed as my balls gave up their heavy load. Jose’s cock slipped out of my mouth, and I rubbed my cheek along his wet shaft while I moaned, sucking the last dribbles of cum from his piss slit. My ass clamped around the still-hard dick invading my hole, and the dark-haired man gave me a final slap as I emptied myself beneath him.

  When I was finished, he pulled out of me and jerked me to my feet. Barely able to stand, I slumped against him while he pulled my head back and rammed his tongue into my mouth. He bit my lip hard while his tongue explored mine. Then he pulled away as suddenly as he’d come, and I dropped to my knees. Scattered on the floor were the pictures he’d taken of me. One showed his hard pole piercing my willing asshole. Taken from above right before he started to fuck me hard, the photo showed him with half of his dick penetrating my hole, as well as the red marks on my back from his beating. My face was buried in Jose’s crotch. Seeing myself taking in both of their thick cocks made me ache to have them back inside me.

  “Take it,” the dark-haired man said. “It’s what you wanted in the first place.”

  Not daring to look up at him, I scooped up the picture. Then I quickly found my discarded clothes and pulled them on, still not looking at Jose or the other man, who watched me silently as I dressed. Cum had matted the hair on my belly into sticky tangles, and I ran my fingers over it while I pulled my shirt on. I knew that I would not wash it off before I fell asleep that night, and the thought made me shiver as I tucked the photo into my pocket.

  When I had pulled my boots back on, I turned to go. Neither man said a word to me, but both smiled as I walked to the window, slid the screen up, and climbed back onto the fire escape. It seemed the only proper way to leave. Taking a final glance at them as I started down the ladder, I saw the dark-haired man pick up his camera and begin shooting again while Jose did something to himself out of my sight.

  After dropping the last few feet to the ground, I walked down the street as easily as if I was out for an evening stroll. But as I thought about how it felt shooting off on that fire escape, and being punished for it afterward, my dick stirred in my pants. It felt just like it did when I was a kid looking at those magazines in my
father’s drawer, and I knew that, just as I’d returned to those magazines time after time, I’d be back again for more of those dirty pictures.

  Southern Comfort

  Louisiana is one of my favorite places in the world. There’s a magic to it that has to be experienced to be believed. The same goes for Louisiana men.

  Spending the summer sweating it out in Louisiana was not something I especially wanted to do. But when the offer came to teach a course in Southern writing at a college there, I weighed the option of getting paid to lead a group of freshmen through the pages of Faulkner and O’Connor against three months of painting houses to make ends meet and said I’d do it. A month later I packed everything I owned into my battered old Toyota and set off, saying good-bye to the dull little town I was living in while doing my graduate work and promising to return in the fall.

  I made the trip in two days. Interstate 55 outside Chicago winds down through Illinois, dipping briefly into Missouri and slicing off a northeastern corner of Arkansas before plunging deep into Mississippi. By the time you hit the straightaway that takes you into Louisiana, you’ve had a healthy spoonful of the pure South. The farther you drive, the closer the heat pulls in around you, descending in a heavy veil that clings to your skin and won’t go away no matter how much water you pour down your throat. As I rolled along beside muddy rivers crowded with boats hauling everything from steel to cows and through stands of ancient trees cradling clouds of moss in their arms, I felt as though the real world were slowly slipping away behind me and I was entering a place where time meant very little. I looked uneasily at the tiny hands doggedly circling the face of my watch, wondering if perhaps they weren’t slowing down just a little.

  The heat refused to bow to the haggard wheezing of my failing air conditioner, and I had the windows rolled down as I passed by the lazy, dark waters of Lake Pontchartrain outside of New Orleans. Another hour brought me to Boudreaux, my home for the summer.

  Boudreaux is one of many small cities that spot the Mississippi Delta like freckles on the neck of a proud woman, and while it hasn’t yet reached the point where it’s become self-conscious, it has expanded to accept the conveniences of a larger place. Navigating the streets lined with stately old homes, I was aware that things there had probably not changed all that much in the last hundred years, and that beneath the neon lights of Chinese takeout restaurants and the eight movie screens of the multiplex beat a heart fueled by the sea and the slow heat of moonshine.

  When the road dropped into the ocean and I found myself at the piers, I stopped the car and looked for someone to ask directions of. A bait shop was sitting at the end of a long pier next to a boat that rose and fell slowly with the breathing of the ocean. A man was sitting in a canvas chair beside the shop. His back was to me, and a fishing line dipped down from a pole between his legs, the thin line disappearing into the black water.

  I walked down the pier, breathing in the salty air and fishy smell that rose from the worn wooden boards beneath my feet, until I had reached the man in the chair. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where Ballard House is?”

  The man turned slowly, his hand shading his eyes so that he could see me, then set his fishing rod down and stood up. He was tall, standing over six feet, and built like a boxer. His overalls were worn and faded from what looked like endless afternoons spent sitting on the dock and fishing, as if he lived in one long, glorious hour between two and three, when the sun was bright and pure and the ocean breeze ran its thin fingers through his hair, which was lightened to a pale golden brown. His skin was likewise tanned, his green eyes looking out from a face the color of bronze with high cheekbones and a wide, square jaw.

  He wore no shirt, the bib of his overalls unbuttoned so that his broad chest was bare. His nipples, dark brown and firm, stood out from the hair that brushed his skin in a dense cloud. The lines of his body, the heavy muscles of his arms, had been wrought by hard physical work. His bare feet were dusted with the red dirt upon which Louisiana sleeps. He looked like one of Tennessee Williams’s rougher characters pulled from the dimly lit stage of a story and dropped onto the pier, completely unsurprised to find himself there.

  He raised his hand, exposing a dark patch of hair beneath his arm. “Well,” he said, his voice as slow and deep as the Mississippi, “you don’t have to look any further. It’s sitting right behind you.”

  I turned around and looked in the direction his finger was pointing. Looming across the street from the pier was a beautiful old building, its brick face dotted with big pale windows that opened onto small balconies. I felt foolish for not having noticed it myself, but consoled myself with the fact that the sign was barely visible through the drooping hair of the willow tree in front.

  “You staying long?” the man asked.

  “Just the summer,” I said.

  He smiled. “That’s what a lot of people say at first. Then once this place works its magic, they decide they don’t want to leave.”

  “We’ll see what happens,” I said. “Thanks for showing me the hotel.” He brought his hand to his forehead in a silent gesture of answer.

  I went back to my car and moved it to the hotel’s parking lot. Taking my bags inside, I was swept into a parlor cooled by overhead fans and filled with shadows. An old woman thin as a bird and wrinkled as an apple too long in the sun registered my name and handed me my key. “Best view in the house,” she said.

  I carried my bags up the stately staircase to my room. Large and airy, it was dominated by a huge wooden bed. After examining the bathroom, which was tiled in pale green and had an ancient, claw-foot bathtub that could probably hold three drunken sailors, I checked out the view the old woman had spoken of.

  Pushing open the tall glass doors, I stepped out onto the balcony. She had been right, the view was breathtaking. The window was high enough that the view cleared the tops of the trees that lined the street below. Beyond the green the sea opened up, stretching endlessly over the curve of the world.

  Looking down, I noticed that I also had a perfect view of the dock, and of the man sitting on it. While he appeared as little more than a bright spot against the water, I had memorized the details of his body and could bring them to mind easily. As I watched him doing nothing but enjoying the day, I recreated his handsome face, then imagined kissing his mouth.

  Stepping back into the room, I shed my clothes and stretched out on the soft bed, letting the drowsy heat of the Louisiana air cover me with its hot breath. I closed my eyes and thought about the man, about his naked body against mine. My cock began to stiffen as I imagined his hands on my back, sliding over my ass, grasping my balls. I started to jerk off slowly as the image of his prick sliding in and out of my mouth formed in my daydream until I could taste the bitter sweat on his skin and feel the light hairs on his forearms beneath my hands. I came as he asked to fuck me, his voice sinking into my head as a load of cum splashed onto my belly.

  As the days wandered on and summer grew into a wild, hot beast that did as it pleased, I saw the man from the pier many times on my way to and from my class. Each time he waved silently, then went back to whatever he was doing. I never spoke to him, nor he to me, yet I was captivated by him, by his easy manner and his beautiful face. At night while the sea rustled outside and the wind blew warm through my room, I made love with him over and over, my body sliding against the sheets in slow, easy thrusts as the thought of him moved over me. In the mornings when I saw him, my face would redden with the remembrance of what I had done with him in my dreams hours earlier.

  One day after class I came home just as a sudden thunderstorm was overtaking the city. Darting into the hotel lobby, I almost crashed right into the man, who was standing just inside the door. “Sorry,” I said. “Just trying to outrun the rain.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, the corner of his mouth rising in a small smile. “I was doing the same thing.”

  We stood in the doorway as the rain pounded on the porch, watching it turn into
thick sheets that swept in sensuous lines across the grass and speckled the ocean with tiny splashes. “Looks like this one’s settled in for the night,” he said.

  I stood there awkwardly, like a high-school girl who’d just run into the football player she had a crush on. “How’d you like to come up and have a shot while you wait it out?” I asked, holding my breath.

  He grinned. “Sounds like a good idea. Sure as hell beats walking home through this.”

  It occurred to me that I still didn’t know his name, so I said, “By the way, I’m Tom.”

  “Luke,” he said, shaking my hand.

  We walked upstairs and I opened the door to my room, dropping the key twice because I was so nervous. Luke followed me in. As he looked out of the balcony doors, I poured whiskey into two glasses. Handing him one, I sipped nervously from mine, letting the warmth from the drink crawl up my insides and settle me a little. Luke downed his drink quickly, his throat moving in a single ripple, and I poured him another.

  He took the drink and sat on the bed. As usual, he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and I wanted badly to run my hands over his hairy chest, to reach out and feel the muscles beneath his skin.

  “This reminds me of when I was a kid,” he said suddenly, startling me out of my fantasy. “Whenever it stormed, my brother and I would climb into our tree house and sit there, listening to the rain on the roof. Sometimes we’d sleep the whole night there, wrapped in our sleeping bags.”

  I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Instead he turned and looked at me. Putting his drink on the bedside table, he reached out and took mine, putting it beside his. I held my breath, waiting to see what he was going to do. Luke reached out and put his hand on mine. Moving it up my arm, he moved until he was between my legs, pushing me back onto the bed.