Tangled Sheets

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Watching the young stud get fingered by his older friend was really getting me hot, and I wanted to see him get really plowed.

  “Fuck him,” I told David. “Stick that big piece of yours up his ass.”

  David spit in his hand and slicked his cock. Then he aimed his head at the opening to Sam’s chute and slammed it in. It was a good thing Sam was so loose from the fingering he’d been given, because David showed no mercy. He pumped in and out of the boy’s ass furiously, his balls slamming against Sam’s thighs with each thrust.

  On my end, I began to fuck Sam’s throat in time with David’s movements. The guy was getting it from both ends and loving it, sucking every inch of the prick I was feeding him while David invaded his ass again and again. Sam was still wearing his tie, and he took the end of it and wrapped the soft silk around the base of my cock, sliding it up my shaft in rhythm with his mouth.

  Finally, I couldn’t hold back any longer. Putting a hand on Sam’s neck, I pushed him down until his face was against my stomach and pumped my load into his throat. He swallowed furiously, barely keeping up with the gusher I was sending his way. At the same time, David pulled out of Sam’s ass and aimed his cock down between the younger man’s legs. After a few strokes, he came with a loud moan, a stream of thick spunk exploding from his prick. His cum spattered Sam’s balls, clinging to them in fat glistening drops and hanging in long ropes that dripped onto my legs.

  Still sucking down my flood, Sam began to jerk his own cock, but David stopped him. “Not yet,” he said. “I think Mr. Caffrey here deserves a turn at that fine ass of yours. After all, we are here to share the message, aren’t we?”

  Sam reversed his position so that he was lying on his back with his head underneath David’s cock. I lifted his legs and placed them over my shoulder, and this time it was my cock pointed at his hole, now wet and dripping from the fuck job it had received at the hands of the older evangelist. At first I didn’t think I’d be able to get hard again so fast, but I was surprised at how quickly my equipment jumped to life when I thought about burrowing into that tasty chute.

  Scooping up some of David’s cum from Sam’s balls, I used it to lube my prick, sliding the thick jism along the length of my rod. When I slipped my cock into Sam’s hole, I was surprised to find it still very tight. I was sure that with the fucking David’s massive prong had given him he’d be loose, but that wasn’t the case. My dick felt like it was sinking into velvet.

  While I was busy attending to Sam’s ass, David was having more fun of his own at the other end. He was rubbing his slimy prick all over Sam’s face, teasing him with it. Just as Sam would open his mouth to suck off the cum and ass juice that covered David’s pole, he’d pull it away again. Sam was whimpering, begging David for a taste of the prick that had so recently pleasured him.

  Instead, David let him suck on his big fingers. Sam took them eagerly, sucking two of them into his mouth like they were the cock he so desperately wanted. David played with him, thrusting his fingers in and out of the boy’s mouth slowly, fucking his lips like they were another asshole. Every so often he wiped off some of the scum from his dick and let Sam have a taste of what he was missing.

  David moved his hips over Sam’s face so that his ass was right over his mouth. Then, wrapping the young man’s tie around his hand, he pulled his face right up into his ass crack. Forced to lick David’s hole, Sam went to work, his mouth sucking noisily at the older man’s furry butthole and sucking at his low hangers. He moaned as he thoroughly washed David’s hole, gasping for breath as he was pulled tighter and tighter into the man’s pucker, his head held in place by the sticky length of silk in David’s fingers.

  Finally, David let him have what he wanted, and Sam eagerly licked every filthy inch of the big piece that slapped his face. Watching him lick David’s tool, I began thrusting harder against him, pulling all of the way out and then ramming back in. David seemed willing to take whatever I could give him, and I banged his butt for all I was worth, leaning back and watching my cock slide in and out of that pink hole until I couldn’t hold off anymore.

  “I’m going to come,” I said to David.

  He nodded and pulled out of Sam’s throat. We knelt at either end of the horny boy, both of us wanking our meat. Suddenly, David tensed, and his load burst across Sam’s handsome face, coating his mouth and lips in dripping lines of cum. I shot right after him, three long spurts that drenched Sam’s neck and chest, staining his tie and shirt with sticky splotches.

  I slid my still-hard cock back into Sam’s asshole and resumed fucking him while David knelt over him and sucked on his, stoking him toward his climax. It didn’t take long for the pent-up load in him to reach a boiling point. He threw his head back, and a wad of cream flew from his tired cock. Over and over he came, his jism exploding in white splashes that streaked the hair on David’s chest.

  When the last drop had been drained from Sam’s balls, he lay back exhausted, our cum drying on his shirt. We let him rest while David showed me just how big his cock really was by shoving it up my chute, but it wasn’t long before he was ready for more. We had another round of sucking and fucking, with both David and I riding Sam’s hooded pony until it was time for them to go.

  As Sam and David left my apartment, David turned and handed me a brochure with his name and phone number written on it. After both of them had kissed me good-bye, Sam turned around at the head of the stairs. “Don’t forget,” he said, smiling, “Jesus loves you.”

  The Memories of Boys

  This is a true story. It’s funny how the people we most despise can also be the ones we most desire.

  Gym class. Eighth grade. Forget the horror of facing thrice-weekly rounds of bombardment. Forget picking the ball up on the soccer field thinking it’s out-of-bounds and hearing the jeers of teammates. Forget even the anxiety produced while waiting to be chosen last for basketball teams. Or for any teams.

  No, the real horror came after the final merciful bell rang and those things were already-fading memories. It came in the locker room, while rushing to get dressed and safely away before an army of naked boys could appear, their skins a rosy pink as they emerged from the scrim of steam produced by the communal showers, their hair wet and glistening like the fur of seals.

  That was the dangerous time, the time when the placement of eyes was of utmost importance. The time when one too-long look at an exposed crotch or a passing pale ass could mean the difference between just another horrible adolescent memory and something much worse. And it was gotten through by holding the breath and praying until the suffocating heat of hot water and adolescent need was replaced by the cool safety of the hallway and the comforting sound of footsteps echoing along the corridor as I hurried away, willing my eyes to forget.

  These are the moments I remember most from those years—the times spent in escape, in running not from others so much as from myself. The stings of “queer,” spat like acid as it was so often, have faded to dull throbs. The days of not belonging have faded into one vague stretch of gray. But even now I remember the running.

  The one who carried the most danger for me was John Dobbins, wearing it like a second skin that fit him more comfortably than his own. Tall, with the muscles of the farm boy he was, he was closer to manhood than the rest of us, as though at birth he’d been dealt a right to take up more space and had ignored even that generous offering. Adopted—I don’t know how I knew this—he was a mystery, his dark hair and blue eyes so dissimilar to those of the red-haired, fair-skinned family that chose him, like the most rambunctious puppy, from the rest of the litter.

  What I remember now, in addition to the blueness of his eyes, are his teeth, crooked and sharp in his mouth. And, of course, the cock, for that is what made John famous in the locker room of Cold Falls Central School. The cock was huge, hanging thickly between John’s legs like a full-grown man’s before he’d even reached the age of thirteen. Besides its size, John’s dick was, for some reason, uncut. Ostensibly,
this is why the other boys felt they could remark upon it without fear of crossing the line into queerdom. Difference was a safe topic of conversation; size was certainly not, although that didn’t stop some imaginative redneck from nicknaming John “Horse.”

  It was John’s cock that I feared, and not so much John himself, although he and I had a history of animosity since once, in fifth grade, he had threatened to kill me for calling him an asshole on the playground. It says something about the both of us that I waited for the next six years for him to carry out this promise, and that he never did.

  But in fifth grade I had not yet seen John’s cock. When I did, it changed something between us, even though I’m sure he could never recall the exact moment it happened as I still can even twenty years later. I have only to think back and see vividly the gray skins of the lockers, reserved for the high-school boys and seemingly sacred, and feel the smoothness of the tile floor as though I’d just walked through the door of that room. I remember, too, the wooden bench, and John bent over it, his balls hanging down between his legs. He turns, and I see his cock, the wrinkled skin folded over the head, the black hair around it still wet from the shower.

  The actual event was hardly momentous, a fleeting glimpse of his prick as he turned to say something to a friend and I darted out the door to the safety of English class, where I could move words around the page as skillfully as John moved the ball around the basketball court, not that it saved me from the curse of being the school fag. Afterward, though, there was a subtle shift in the way John made his way through my world. Where before I avoided him in the halls out of general fear, now I did so for far different reasons. I feared what he made me feel, despite my hatred of him and him of me. I hated that sometimes at night, my cock hard from thoughts that came seemingly out of nowhere, I recalled the sight of his dick as I stroked myself into a wadded-up tissue. When one day I was kneeling on the gym floor tying my shoe and John, passing by, said, “Hey, faggot, while you’re down there why don’t you give me a blow job?” the words hung before me, ripe with hatred. But despite their bitterness, I wanted nothing more than to swallow them down.

  I never saw John’s cock again. And after a hurried departure from high school three years later, I never saw John himself again. Yet sometimes I see a similar face, or perhaps a similar hatred reflected in the eyes of a man on the street or on the subway, and I am reminded of him. And still sometimes I close my eyes and imagine sucking a cock, long and thick. Its owner’s hands hold my head, not in love but in hate, as he fucks my mouth. It is an act of need, pure and simple. And inevitably, when I open my eyes and look up, I am in a junior-high locker room, and it is John’s cold blue eyes looking down as he releases his load into my throat and, happily, I swallow.

  The Night Before Christmas

  It all started with the singing elves and way too much eggnog.

  I’d been working as a security guard at the James Madison Mall for almost eight months, ever since leaving the corps. Actually, since they’d asked me to leave after discovering me in the shower with my sergeant’s cock up my ass and a big load streaming from my prick. Because his daddy was someone important in Washington, he came out of the whole thing with no trouble and even managed to make it so I wasn’t given a dishonorable. Early retirement they called it, except there was no good-bye party or big gold watch. Still, it was worth all the trouble to have his thick tool in my shitter, even if it was just that once. I was practically still coming when the MPs slapped the cuffs on me, my ass aching from the banging he’d given it.

  I had some money saved up, so I’d taken the job at James Madison mainly for something to do. Most of the time, patrolling the mall was a cakewalk. During the day it was filled mainly with older couples with nothing better to do than totter around for a couple of hours buying candles in the shapes of cats and dragging their grandkids to Sears to have their pictures taken. Every so often gaggles of teenage girls training to be world-class shoppers would get caught trying to lift clothes from The Gap and I’d have to give them a scare. But usually things ran smoothly, and I spent most of my time walking around cruising the guys whose girlfriends or wives dragged them along to look at silk panties and new toaster ovens.

  But the holiday season was another matter altogether. Starting the day after Halloween, every shop in the place was crammed with Christmas displays, half-price sales, and anything else that might bring customers in and make them part with their cash. The whole place was covered in endless yards of red and green tissue paper, like some demented gift wrapper from Macy’s customer service department had done the whole thing up as her contribution to the big celestial grab bag.

  For eight weeks I was trapped in Christmas hell. From the minute I unlocked the doors in the morning until the last person was shooed away when the mall closed at ten, the place was packed wall to wall with people carrying bags and boxes, kids screaming and crying, and the sounds of mall workers with painted-on smiles spritzing everyone with perfume samples and announcing impromptu sales on such indispensable items as cheese logs, four-in-one tools, and ceramic gnomes that doubled as toilet-scrubber holders.

  The center of the holiday madness maelstrom was the mall’s main court, a big empty space surrounded by food vendors that was used for special occasions like auto shows, cooking demonstrations, and other assorted galas. For many years, local religious groups had staged a traditional manger scene there, with Mary and Joseph and the whole bit, right down to the lambs made out of cotton balls and shepherds dressed in someone’s old bathrobes. Then, a few years back, there had been a big fight between the church people and those who said religion had no place in a public space. Things came to a head when someone managed to snatch the baby Jesus when no one was looking, so that when you got close enough you realized that Mary was smiling down angelically at a smoked ham with pineapple rings where a face should be.

  After that, the church people had completely given up, and every year since then the court had been transformed for eight weeks into this weird Christmas Land where kids could have their pictures taken with Santa. Mounds of fake snow were scattered around with giant plastic candy canes sprouting up like impossible red-and-white trees and the whole place was hung with flashing colored lights. The centerpiece of the whole thing was a couple of garish gingerbread-inspired houses that were supposed to be Santa’s house and workshop.

  To make the spirit of magical holiday joy complete, there were mechanical reindeer and a chorus of singing elves equipped with a tape of various Christmas songs. Normally the elves were harmless enough, running through their endlessly looping repertoire of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” “Frosty the Snowman,” and the like, their robot mouths and eyes opening and closing in random order like actors in a badly dubbed Japanese monster film. But for some implausible reason, the tape also included the “Hallelujah Chorus,” and about once an hour the elves would launch into this shrieking rendition of Handel’s classic piece, sounding like a bunch of drunken drag queens performing at a Messiah sing-along, all of them fighting for the soprano parts. But people loved it, and it made piles of money, so it went up year after year.

  Every day starting at noon the court was thronged with kids piled in long lines to see Santa. They’d stand for two hours or more waiting for the chance to sit on some strange fat guy’s lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas. By the time they finally got to the front of the line, they were so hyper that most of them forgot their names, let alone what they wanted. A couple of them simply threw up from the excitement. If they did make it that far, they were rewarded with a few hearty chuckles from Santa and a promise to bring them exactly what they wanted, which when the sought-after gift didn’t materialize Christmas morning would inevitably result in gales of tears. When time was up, a grinning elf (usually a graduate student from the university who needed the money badly enough to wear pointed shoes and fake latex ears) would drag them off, sending them away with a candy cane and a picture to hang on the refrigerator.<
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  The whole Santa thing bothered me, and I made it a point to stay as far away from the scene as possible. It was bad enough doing battle with the legions of big-haired women clicking madly through the halls in their high heels and clouds of sickly sweet perfume without having to contend with unhappy parents whose kids were about to explode from all the Christmas buildup and who wanted to know why the elves couldn’t move the line just a little bit faster. As far as I was concerned, Santa was on his own, and good luck to him. The sooner Christmas was over, the better in my book. I gritted my teeth and counted down the days until life could return to normal.

  Finally it was Christmas Eve. On that night the mall turned its back on the pleading face of commercialism and was only open until seven. At a few minutes before the hour, there were still people dashing around snatching up anything that was left on the shelves. Even as shop workers were pulling down their gates and preparing to go home, people would try to run in to get something they’d forgotten. I wrestled the last of them, a disheveled woman shrieking that she just had to get one more gift for her sister-in-law or what would everyone say at the party, out the doors into the snow. Turning the lock on the door, I congratulated myself that Christmas was now over. With everyone gone and the lights off, the mall was eerily silent and still. All I had to do was make one last walk around the whole place and make sure that no one was still inside. Once that was done, I could go home and settle in for my much-needed long winter’s nap.