Tangled Sheets (22 page)

He took his hand out of my mouth and started to finger my asshole. I was tight, but my spit helped him slip one finger in so he could loosen me up. Soon I was rocking back and forth over the three fingers that had been in my mouth, the warm rim of his wedding ring once again adding extra pleasure as he slipped it past my sphincter. Peter pulled his fingers out and positioned his cockhead against the opening to my chute. As he drove in, my cock sprang up and slapped against my stomach from the thrill of being invaded by him. I'd never had anything so thick up me before, and Peter filled me totally. I could feel every twitch of his prick inside my belly, and the sensation of his fat head throbbing deep inside me nearly sent me over the edge.

Peter didn't waste any time letting me get used to his size. Pulling back, he began to hammer my ass with abandon, bombarding my tender hole with his full arsenal. Grunting with every thrust, he buried his prick in me again and again until thick drops of slime were dripping from my cockhead onto the bathroom floor. My dick bounced up and down, slapping my stomach and brushing against the edge of the urinal as it thrashed around.

I imagined someone walking in on us and seeing the big stud fucking my ass in the middle of the men's room, and this made me even hornier. I pictured all of the men who had stood in that very spot, and would stand there the next day oblivious to what had happened, and imagined them all jerking off watching us. I pushed back against Peter, driving him even farther in, and he responded by increasing his speed so that his belly slapped painfully against my ass as he pumped his full length in and out of my burning hole.

Still fucking me, Peter wrapped his hand around my cock and began to beat me off in time with his thrusting. He was bent over me now, and his breath was ragged on the back of my neck.

“I'm going to shoot deep inside you,” he growled in my ear. “I'm going to fucking come in your tight hole.”

I was close to shooting myself, and hearing this family man talking dirty to me as he stuffed his tool up my butt filled me with a perverse joy. I wanted Peter to empty his load in me. Clamping my ass muscles around his dick, I began to ride him furiously. He started to moan, and I felt his prick swell painfully inside me just before he let out a low groan of pleasure and a thick blast plastered my shitter with his heat.

Peter came three times, each time emptying a huge load into me. The last spasm sent me over the edge. I looked down and saw a flood of jism shoot from my cock as Peter pumped it. It sprayed a sticky web all over the urinal, covering the sides and dripping from the rim to the floor in long threads. Seeing it there brought another round from my tired nuts, this time coating Peter's hand with a heavy rain that clung to the hairs of his wrist and hand.

Slipping out of my ass, Peter dressed quickly and left without another word, which was just as I wanted it. If he'd said anything else, it would have shattered the world we'd created there between the white tiled walls of the men's room. I wanted to remember him as he'd been the moment when his cock was buried in my ass, releasing his need into me.

After that night I couldn't pass Peter in the hall without my prick getting hard. But we never discussed or repeated our encounter, and there were no more reminders waiting for me in the men's room. Then, a few months later, I stopped on my way out to wash my hands. There in the water of the urinal a swirl of white broke the clear surface. And sitting on the rim was a hair, golden brown like honey. Looking at it, I felt a familiar stirring in my balls, and my hand went immediately to my zipper.

“Y
es!” I heard Mike yell enthusiastically from the bedroom as I opened the front door. “That's the way to throw the goddamned ball. Stop playing like a bunch of sissies and you just might pull this thing off.” I had just come from the gym, where I'd been so caught up in my workout that I'd lost all track of time. When I suddenly realized that the Series had started twenty minutes earlier, I hadn't even bothered to shower before coming home, and my skin was damp and sticky with the sweat I'd worked up jogging the twelve blocks to the apartment.

I should explain that in our house, baseball is king. Mike and I both play in a weekend league made up of a bunch of guys in their thirties who should really know better but insist on dragging ourselves out to the park once a week to throw a ball around and tell tall tales about our illustrious careers on Rotary Club teams or high-school squads. While I did play second base on my college team, I enjoy running around the field catching flies and swatting the ball mainly because it's fun to be with a bunch of other guys playing a game. But Mike played several seasons for an Atlanta farm team before a groin injury (he was screwing the strength coach in the showers and slipped) took him out of big league consideration, and for him it's like being able to relive those summer days of glory all over again.

Every spring he starts getting all worked up for the season, buying tickets to opening-day games and poring over stats in the morning paper. He even keeps a chart on the refrigerator that he updates daily, tracking the progress of both leagues. I turn into the proverbial baseball widow while he gets a severe case of baseball fever that lasts straight through September, growing worse as the end of the season draws near. Needless to say, the World Series is the highlight of his year. And this year the Braves, Mike's hometown team, were in the final sweep.

Tossing my gym bag on a chair, I went into the bedroom. Mike was lying on the bed, propped up against the pillows. He was wearing a faded pair of jeans and his Atlanta Braves T-shirt and baseball hat. All he needed was a few stripes of yellow and red war paint on his cheeks and he'd look just like the chanting fans watching the game from the stands. I told him when we moved to San Francisco that he might want to think about picking a new favorite team to root for, but after growing up in the South he was as stubborn as the strong-willed Dixie women who'd met the Yankee soldiers on the road armed with nothing but their parasols and their anger.

“Who's winning?” I asked as I flopped down on the bed next to him.

He grinned, the muscles of his darkly shadowed jaw sliding into a smile. He never shaves during the Series, and after more than a week he had the beginnings of quite a nice beard coming in. “I'm not telling,” he said teasingly. “If you can't show up on time, you forfeit your right to know until the next break. Besides,” he added, sniffing loudly, “you really smell. You better hit the showers.”

I rolled over on top of him and pinned him to the bed, straddling his wide chest and holding his arms down with my knees. I was blocking his view of the television, and he was struggling to see around me. “Hey,” he said, “I can't see the game.”

“Too bad,” I said, licking his neck while he strained to pull away. “You apologize.”

“No way,” he laughed, trying to push me off. “Now let me up.”

“If you won't apologize, then you'll have to pay the penalty,” I said. I pressed my crotch forward so that the bulge in my sweats was right in front of his mouth. “Suck it.”

“But it's game six,” he whined. “The Braves are up three to two. If they win this one, they win the whole damn thing. Do you know how long I've waited to see the hometown boys win this thing?”

“I don't know,” I told him. “You aren't being particularly good tonight. I'm not sure you should be able to watch any television.” Snatching up the remote control, I clicked off the set. Mike cried out indignantly. “You bastard. Turn that back on right now.”

“Not until you show a little more teamwork,” I growled. Reaching into my bedside table drawer, I pulled out a couple of old ties I keep there for just such emergencies. One at a time, I wrapped the ends around Mike's wrists and secured them to the rails of the big iron bed frame. He kept trying to buck me off him, but I'm taller and outweigh him by about thirty pounds, and there was no way he was going to move me. The whole time, a steady stream of cursing came from his mouth. “You fucking shit,” he bellowed. “You peckerhead. This is torture, you goddamned cocksucker. You better let me up or you'll be really sorry.”

I looked down at him, his arms tied helplessly above his head. “For someone in your position you sure do have a big mouth,” I said. “It's a good thing I have something in mind to fill it with. Now just lie there while Coach goes and gets ready for his boy.”

I climbed off the bed and went into the bathroom, leaving Mike squirming and swearing on the bed. Tying him up had gotten me all worked up, and my prick started to harden as I mentally ran over the scene I was about to play out. In the bathroom, I quickly pulled off my sweats and T-shirt and threw them in the hamper. I really was smelling pretty strong from my workout, and the scent of my own body made me even harder. I snatched up a jock from the pile of dirty laundry and pulled it on, arranging the straps over the full moons of my ass and making a tight basket of my cock and balls. There were old cum and piss stains on the pouch, and since I'd worn it for three weeks without washing it I knew it was ripe with my ball sweat.

Also sitting on the mound of laundry waiting to be washed was the uniform I wore for weekend play. I pulled on the tight-fitting blue pants and drew the drawstring closed. The last time we'd played it had been wet, and there were a couple of really good dirt and grass stains on the legs from where I'd taken a slide into home plate. I put on the loose jersey as well, my number 33 on the back in white with Morgan written over it in block letters.

To complete the outfit I pulled my socks and sneakers back on. Then, grabbing an old batting glove from the hallway table, I went back in to attend to Mike. He had been unable to get out of the firm knots I'd made and was still tied up nice and tight. His face was red from all the exertion, and he looked like he wanted to kill me. He wouldn't even look at me as I walked to the foot of the bed and stared down at him.

“Now,” I said deliberately as I fastened the batting glove around my left wrist and stretched my fingers inside it. “I think you and I have some training to do. I can't have my boys disobeying Coach's orders, can I?”

Mike glared at me. “I'm not doing it,” he said. “Nothing you can do is going to make me horny, Tom. I mean it. Now turn the game back on.”

I could tell that he really was mad at me, but my stubborn streak was in control at the moment, and I was determined to have him begging me to fuck him. Spreading my legs, I started to rub my crotch slowly, my fingers working on the head of my prick. “Oh, come on,” I teased. “Don't you want Coach to show you his nice big cock?”

Mike grunted. He was angry, but I could tell he was having to try really hard not to look at my dick. The man is a born slave to a big cock, and he worshipped my tool whenever he could. I knew it was killing him not to watch me stroke my dick to life, especially the way it stretched underneath the confining skin of my uniform pants, pointing straight up inside the grip of the jock.

“Looks like someone's getting a little hard-on,” I said, reaching over to squeeze the bulge between his legs. He twisted his lower body to one side, trying to get away from me, but not before I'd gotten a handful of his stiffening dick.

“Fuck you,” he snarled.

I pulled away. “Is that any way to talk to your coach?” I bellowed. “It looks like I'll have to teach you a lesson in showing respect.”

I grabbed the waist of his jeans and pulled the buttons open roughly, yanking the pants down his legs and off him. He was wearing a pair of white boxers underneath, and his prick made a nice little rise along his thigh. I especially liked the way the white line of the boxers cut across the blond-brown hair on his legs and belly, neatly severing the thick spray that rose up from his crotch to flood out across what I could see of his torso below his T-shirt.

Standing next to him, I ran my finger lightly over his skin, feeling bumps leap up under my touch and his muscles flutter as I stroked him. “Now,” I said, looking into his angry gray eyes, “since you're so determined not to get hard for your coach, we're going to make a little wager. I'm going to show you just what's under this here uniform. If you manage to stay soft, you go free and get to see your game. But if this cock gets all hard for me, then I'm going to take it out on that sweet ass of yours. We're going to see what's more important to you—baseball or dick. Understood?”

Mike's face went red as he thought about what was going to happen. He knew he was going to lose, but he was going to try his damnedest not to, and that would be torture for him. “You're a sick fucking bastard,” he said.

Moving back to the foot of the bed, I looked down at Mike, his wrists bound so neatly to the rails of the bed, his balls and cock covered by the thin veil of his boxers like the face of a beautiful woman. He was still wearing his Braves T-shirt and hat and looked like any jock plucked straight from the locker room of a ball club and dropped into my bedroom. The sight of him all tied up like that made my dick stretch another inch or two. Never taking my eyes off his face, I grabbed the edge of my jersey and started to lift it over my chest. Mike loves my heavily muscled chest, the dark hair covering it in soft swirls. His favorite thing is to shoot a thick load right into my fur and then lick it off again, rubbing his face from my neck to my cock.

I could tell he was trying not to think about drenching me in his spunk as I showed him inch after inch of my torso. I pulled the jersey over my head and dropped it to the floor. “You like Coach's chest, boy?” I teased as I rubbed my hand over my belly and flexed my muscles. “You thinking about how it would feel to have your balls rubbing across this fur while I eat out your ass and you suck my cock?”

Mike's dick moved beneath the skin of his boxers, the head swelling a little, and he gritted his teeth. “Up yours,” he spat out.

I pinched one of my nipples between my fingers, rubbing it slowly while I lifted my other arm and showed Mike the forest of damp hair beneath it. Turning my head, I ran my tongue across the bunched muscles of my bicep and licked at the tangle of black. “Nice and sweaty,” I said between licks. “Just like a coach's pit should be. All ready for some smart-ass boy to wash clean.”

Mike's cock was half-hard now, jutting out across his leg while he tried to will it back down. I knew I had him, and I moved my hands to the drawstring holding my pants closed. My cock was at full attention now and was pressed painfully against my groin. Unlacing the string, I loosened the uniform pants and pushed them down my hips so that just the tip of my straining prick poked out. Mike groaned audibly as he saw his favorite toy.

“Now, now,” I said. “This is only for the boys who know how to play nice. The ones who do just what Coach says.” I pushed the pants down further so that Mike could see my jock.

“Go play with yourself,” he snarled, throwing his head back against the pillows.

Almost immediately, he knew he'd made his fatal mistake. Removing my sneakers, I pulled the pants off completely, standing in front of Mike in nothing but a very full jockstrap and my batting glove. My dick stretched a good three inches over the edge of the jock, and Mike couldn't take his eyes off of it. His prick was almost fully hard, and there was a small stain on the white fabric where he was leaking precum.

“Be careful there,” I mocked him. “You get any bigger and Coach will have to use that thing for batting practice.”

Mike looked down at his rapidly extending dick and then back at me. “You haven't won yet,” he said, swallowing heavily.

I started to pull the jock off, letting it slip slowly down my thick shaft and hairy thighs. The whole time I was stripping, I told Mike exactly what I was going to do with him once the jock was off. “I'm going to stick it right up your tight ass,” I said huskily as I showed him more of my engorged stick. “You know you want Coach to spread your nice sweet cheeks and push his big tool inside. Want to feel him pushing deep inside your hot shitter. Want to feel him shoot his stud load in your nasty hole.”

Mike's dick was hard as a rock now, tenting out his boxers where it rose up from his groin. He knew it was all over for him. Still, he was resisting, and I didn't stop teasing him. “Maybe you want to suck Coach off before he fucks you,” I said as I finally slipped the jock down my thighs and let my balls swing free. My prick flopped down and hung over my smooth, heavy sac, the head swollen and red from being constricted for so long. “Slide your mouth along the shaft until you feel my bush against your face. Think you could take the whole thing in?” I gave my cock a couple of quick strokes, urging from the lips a thin stream of silvery drool that hung swinging in the air for a moment before falling to the floor.