Tangled Sheets (30 page)

My face hovered above his cock as I lay against his stomach, feeling the hair on his body rubbing over my skin and his mouth massaging my nuts one at a time, moving from one to the other. Leaning down, I ran my tongue down the length of his tool, from the tip of the fat head to the soft, hairy place where his balls tumbled into the space between his legs. His thighs were hairy, and my cheeks brushed against them as I rooted in his crotch, savoring the rich taste of sweat and maleness of his skin.

Moving back up, I took the tip between my lips and sucked at it. I was rewarded with a stream of sticky precum that coated my tongue and slipped down my throat, coating it with the thick taste of his jism. Urged on by this delicious beginning, I slid as much of his cock as I could into my throat, groaning as his thickness swelled inside me, his shaft expanding as his excitement mounted. At the same time, he moved his mouth from my balls to my ass, slipping his tongue into my crack and finding my sensitive asshole. My prick jumped against his chest as he found his way inside my chute, his tongue forcing its way past my hole as his hands gripped my ass painfully.

As I loosened up, he started to thrust his tongue more deeply into me. I began to match his movements in my ass with those of my mouth on his prick, sliding inch after inch into my anxious throat as he reamed me from behind. After a while, his tongue slipped out of my ass and was replaced by a finger that slid in and out of my slicked opening in time with the dick penetrating my mouth. Soon it was joined by a second, then another and another until four fingers were grinding into my butt, stretching it wide.

Having my ass fucked as I sucked his big cock was an amazing feeling, as if we were connected by a line that ran through the middle of my body. I ground myself fiercely against his hand, sliding my cock against his chest while I tried to push every last inch of his prick into me, loving the way the hair on his body tortured my sensitive cockhead and the way his dick choked me with its size. I imagined how his fingers would look sliding in and out of my hole, what my heated walls must feel like against his skin, and became even more turned on.

I wanted to taste his ass as well, so I let his cock fall from my lips and lie against my neck as I put my hands beneath his knees and pulled his legs back toward his waist. As I leaned my weight on his thighs his beautiful ass spread out before me, the cheeks parting to reveal his fur-rimmed hole with a pink pucker at its center. Diving in, I licked and kissed his hole until the spit-soaked hair swirled in delicate circles around the opening like a wreath. He tasted wonderful, thick and heady, and I wanted to lick him forever. My mouth traveled over the mounds of his beautiful ass, biting at the skin as his balls rolled against my throat and the sounds of the elves singing “Silver Bells” swirled through my head.

His cock was pressing insistently against my throat, and I was overcome by the need to have it inside me. Letting his legs fall back down, I turned myself around so that I was sitting on his chest facing him. His face was bathed in a changing wash of blue, green, and red as the lights around us twinkled. I leaned forward and guided the head of his prick into my waiting hole. As I pushed back, he lifted his hips and drove his tool deep into my willing ass until I was sitting against his balls, my cock pressed flat against my belly it was so hard.

“A nice tight fit,” he said. “Just like going down a well-built chimney.”

I couldn't respond, my mind reeling from the size of the dick filling me. It was a good thing he'd loosened me up with his hand first. I felt his head twitch somewhere in my belly and groaned, my ass clamping tightly around his shaft. He put his hands on my chest and once more gripped my nipples tightly, twisting them as I began to ride him in long strokes. When I reached the tip of his cock, he fucked the opening of my chute in short thrusts, sending flutters of pleasure through me as if snowflakes had tumbled onto my bare skin.

Sinking back down the length of him, I was once again filled with his solidness and his heat. My ass swallowed him greedily, feasting on every inch. My cock began to ache as I rode him, and beneath me he started to breathe heavily, working my tits even harder the more I pumped him. The fire inside me reached the point where it threatened to burst into my chest, and I felt my balls tense with the need to release. I started to pump his rod more quickly, anticipating the delicious spread of pleasure I knew would accompany my explosion.

“Don't come,” he whispered, just as I was about to blow my load. “I want you to fuck me.”

It took everything I had not to spray my spunk across his chest, especially as he gave one final push and I felt him swell inside me and gush streams of heat into my bowels. As I concentrated on holding back the torrent that roiled restlessly in my nuts, his mouth opened in a silent cry as he reached the edge, his tool scattering drops of seed throughout my insides. I felt them plaster my chute in thick waves and held my cock tightly in my hand to prevent myself from shooting.

Pulling out of me, he rolled me off him and knelt on his hands and knees with his head down on his hands. His cock, still hard and slick with his own cum, hung down, fat drops sliding into the cotton snow. All worked up from my own need to come and from feeling him explode inside me, I wasted no time moving behind him and slamming my prick into his delicious ass. My stomach slapped against his butt as I drove my cock to the root with one thrust, my hands tightly clamped on his waist. I thought I might pass out from the sensation that enveloped my overworked tool, and began to fuck him as hard as I could before I couldn't hold out any longer.

As I worked toward my climax, my head swam with a mixture of heat and the sounds of the manic elves, who had now reached the “Hallelujah Chorus” segment of their repertoire. My cock was sliding in and out of him fiercely as I pumped his beautiful hole, and I wanted it to last forever. Lifting his head, he began to beat his cock in time with me. His ass coaxed my prick to new heights of joy, and I pounded him furiously as the voices of the elves rose up dizzyingly through the chorus of hallelujahs that signaled the song's end.

As they reached the shattering climax, their tinny voices hanging on the last note sharp as an icicle, he and I came together. My prick exploded in rejoicing, showering his ass with a snowstorm of cum that roared through him with a wild howl. At the same time, his head flew back and a stream shot from his cock and spattered against the wall of the gingerbread house, where it trickled down like slowly melting snow.

Exhausted, I collapsed in the snow, pulling him down on top of me. The elves, finished with their concert, were quiet as the tape rewound itself somewhere inside them. The lights twinkled merrily around us, sparkles of color spinning over our sweaty bodies as we tried to catch our breath. Through the skylight, I could see that it was snowing heavily, swirls of white scattering across the glass in frosty eddies. We lay there silently, his softening cock against my leg.

“Looks like it's getting stormy out there,” he said. “I should probably be on my way.”

He got up and began to dress, pulling on the red suit as I put my uniform back on. When he was fully costumed, the white beard back in place and the cap on his head, he reached into his pocket. Pulling out a candy cane, he handed it to me. “Merry Christmas,” he said, as he walked out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

W
hen I was a child, I had a recurring dream in which a man was staying at our house for the night. I didn't know his name or why he was there. I didn't know anything about him except that for some reason he excited me in a way no one else ever had. Hearing his voice would make me tremble, and when he touched my arm to say good night, the warmth he left behind was deeper than that of any fire.

In this dream, I fell asleep feeling the man's presence in the house, as though despite the walls that separated us he was holding me in his arms. In the morning, he would be gone, leaving behind a well-worn T-shirt on his bed. I would pull the shirt over my head and be immediately surrounded by the smell and heat of him. It was intoxicating. My head would swim as I breathed in his scent and felt the shirt, which had fit so tightly on his large body, float around my smaller one. Inevitably, I would wake from the dream to sticky sheets and a breathlessness born of unnamed desire.

No man ever left me his shirt in those days, but many have since. I have a drawer filled with them, a drawer I never open. I like to know that it's there, that inside are collected, like the discarded skins of wild animals, the shirts of men whose bodies I have felt sliding against mine as their cocks entered my ass, men whose mouths have closed over mine as they spilled their loads deep inside me and whose fingers have gripped my wrists above my head as they led me once again into those adolescent dreams.

The shirts are stained—with sweat and cum and sometimes the faint scent of soap—and each holds the smell of its owner tightly in its arms. I do not take them out, because there is memory in objects, and I do not want the memories to fade. I prefer to keep them, neatly folded, in their drawer. Sometimes as I pass the dresser I feel their presence, and sometimes on summer nights I can smell their fragrance rising from the drawer like the breath of the flowers comes from the garden below my window. On those nights I wake, as I did when I was twelve, with my cock hard in my hand and my mind swimming with the memories of men.

There is one thing I do allow myself to touch. It is a jacket, made of black leather and much like any other motorcycle jacket seen on any number of men. But it is also unlike all other jackets, in that it belonged to one man not like any other man I have ever known. A man I wanted more than I have ever wanted anything.

The jacket hangs in my bedroom closet, toward the back, hidden behind rows of neatly pressed dress shirts. I do not look at it often, fearing that overuse will cause the memories to fade. I cannot risk forgetting. Knowing it is there is usually enough. But sometimes, especially when the air begins to change from the warm breezes of summer to the crisp breath of fall, just knowing is no longer enough. That's when I reach inside and, feeling the smooth leather beneath my fingers, it all comes back. . . .

 

I saw Gabriel for the first time on an October night. I had been working late at the bookstore, and it was after midnight when I finally finished and locked up. It was one of the first cold nights of the season, and I remember very clearly the way the wind felt as it played around my face. The moon overhead was almost full, and as I walked toward home, everything seemed to be glazed with a covering of soft, bewitching gold.

Dunstable is a small college town, the kind found scattered all throughout New England like rice at a wedding. It began life as a small fishing port, which over the years changed personas several times as fishing died and the people were forced to find different ways of life. Unlike other towns in the Northeast, it did not have the advantage of being either the scene of a witchcraft panic or the site of a historic uprising, so it had to make do with what it had, which was its quiet and its beauty. When Farley University set up house and the people began to come, first with their big ideas and later with their Volvos and their PhD's, the town found its true calling and embraced this new way of life as it had all the others before it.

Since then, the town had grown to surround the university. A new world of coffeehouses, meditation centers, and bookstores was built alongside the fish markets and auto shops, and within a decade no one would ever remember that once it had been different. The town had settled into a cycle of seasons that easily became familiar to anyone who stayed there for more than a year. I noticed Gabriel precisely because he did not fit into Dunstable's normal pattern of life. He appeared in my vision as something out of place, perhaps even out of time, breaking the ordinariness of my nightly walk home. Where usually I would see nothing but the smooth brick face of the wall next to the Black Sheep Pub, I saw instead a man leaning against the stone in a waterfall of electric light, watching me.

It surprises me now that I sensed no fear. If anyone told me a story that began with their chancing upon a stranger after midnight, I would immediately suspect some sinister motive behind it all. But it wasn't like that. Maybe it was the spell of the first autumn night, or perhaps just that after almost a decade in Dunstable I was incapable of thinking in terms of imminent danger. Whatever the cause, I simply nodded and said, “Hello.”

Gabriel, although of course I didn't yet know his name, responded with a nod of his own, but he remained silent, watching me as I walked past him. While I didn't stare at him, I did glance long enough to take in his appearance. Tall and broad, he was wearing jeans and black boots. His upper body was wrapped in a leather jacket. He looked, in fact, like a lot of the boys who attended Farley, many of whom tried to adopt an aura of what I guessed they assumed was hypermasculine sexiness simply by putting on a motorcycle jacket plucked off the rack at James Dean's Closet.

Sometimes I would go to these young men, waiting in bathroom stalls or under the trees in the park, and suck their dicks. As I moved over the lengths of their cocks, I let my hands play over their jackets, only to find the surfaces stiff with newness, the zippers stubborn with disuse. Then I would bring them off quickly, with no desire or pretense of need, and leave before they'd even finished coming. Their posing disgusted me, their attempts at taking on what they would never earn leaving me cold.

Only Gabriel was no pretender. He looked like he'd been born in his boots and jacket. I could tell by the way he stood that he wore them with the confidence of someone whose body demanded them, that every crease and fold had been put there by experience. And I knew instinctively that he wouldn't look quite right in anything else. On his body, anything besides jeans and that jacket would always appear the wrong size, no matter how carefully it was tailored. It was he who made the leather come alive, and not the other way around. That, and not his strangeness, is what made him dangerous to me.

I hurried past him and made my way down the street. I knew he was watching me, and that he knew I was thinking about him. It was as though there was nothing else I could be doing, even if I wanted to. I tried to think of anything else—the night's receipts, the author arriving for a signing the next day, the leftover roast beef in the refrigerator. But his presence filled up all of the empty air around me until, halfway down the block, I was forced to turn around.

He was waiting for me. Still leaning against the wall, he had hunted me down with his eyes as I'd tried to escape. Now, even in the dark, I knew they were focused on me. I moved slowly, as if in water, retracing my path until I was only a few feet from where he stood. As I approached, he smiled. “Come on,” he said, and I followed.

He led me to the alley that ran between the Black Sheep and my store. Stepping into it, he was swallowed by the darkness, and for a moment I thought about just running away, back to the safety of my well-lit home and the security of rooms filled with familiar things. But then I remembered the way his jacket moved around him, and I slipped into the night behind him.

The alley was narrow, flanked on either side by the high brick walls of the buildings. The moon overhead shone down between them, creating a thin river of golden light that ran between the brick banks. It was in this river that Gabriel and I moved. He turned to me and pressed me against the wall. I felt the coldness of the bricks against my hands and the weight of his body against my chest.

“Tell me what you want,” he said.

I looked into his dark eyes. His face, I saw now, was almost boyish, with pale skin and full lips. But he was no boy. The strength in the hands that pinned me was that of a man, a man who knew what he was doing.

“I want to taste you,” I said at last.

Gabriel smiled. “That's what I thought,” he said, and kissed me. His tongue slammed against mine, pushing its way inside. His hands were in my hair, pulling my head back as he ground against my body. I felt his knee move between my legs and press up into my groin.

My hands freed, I reached out and touched the skin of his jacket. The leather was cool with night and as soft as Gabriel's kisses were rough. My hands moved over his arms and back slowly, searching out every curve of the body beneath the second skin. They traced the edge of his collar, treading the line between flesh and leather, between the warmth of blood and the smoothness of the jacket.

I moved my mouth away from Gabriel's and down his throat, my tongue running over unshaven skin until it reached the top of his jacket. When I tasted the rich sensation of leather, I put my hands on his waist and began to lick the edges of the zipper holding the jacket closed. The metal scraped lightly on my teeth as I moved down, sinking until I was on my knees, looking up at Gabriel. My hands rested on his boots.

“Please,” I said.

Gabriel looked down at me, then reached for his zipper. He pulled it down, opening his jacket. Underneath he wore just a plain white T-shirt. I reached up and undid the buckle of his wide leather belt, then pulled at the buttons holding his jeans closed. They slid open easily, sliding down his muscular legs to his knees. He was wearing a jockstrap. The thin bands crossed the mounds of his ass, stretched tightly. The pouch hung down, weighted with his cock and balls.

Leaning forward, I ran my hands up under his T-shirt, feeling a thick cover of hair on his belly. My mouth worked on his pouch, sucking at the hidden prick. I could smell him in the material and breathed deeply. It was the smell of a man, heavy and rich, and it filled my nose as I licked hungrily at his balls.

Moving my hands around to Gabriel's back, I slid the jockstrap down, feeling his ass fill my hands. Tugging it down in front, I freed his cock, which sprang up half-hard over a pair of juicy balls. I took it into my mouth, slipping the tip inside my lips and sucking softly. I could feel the blood beating in his shaft as his dick filled with heat and swelled to its full length.

Gabriel pushed against me, sliding deep into my throat. The heat of his skin, so different from the coolness of the air around us, surrounded me as I took him in. My lips moved over his shaft, sucking at his hard flesh while his swollen head filled my throat. His hands gripped my shoulders steadily as he pumped himself in and out of my mouth.

I sucked Gabriel for what seemed like an eternity, savoring the taste of his skin, the smell of him when I buried my nose in his thick bush. From time to time I ran my hands over his boots, sucking harder when I had the leather under my hands, as though drawing my need from it.

Then Gabriel pulled out. “Stand up,” he said, and I obeyed. “Now strip.”

Oblivious to the cold, I pulled my clothes off, dropping them to the ground. In a minute I was standing naked in front of Gabriel, the wind raising a chill up and down my exposed skin as I waited.

Gabriel stepped forward and grabbed my cock in his hand. He squeezed hard, making me gasp. Until that moment, I hadn't even realized how hard I was. Gabriel's fingers on my prick almost made me shoot. Even more beautiful was the feeling of his jacket against my naked skin.

“Turn around.”

I turned, and Gabriel pushed me forward so that I was leaning against the wall. He moved in behind me, putting his arms around my chest. I could feel his cock pressed against my ass. I bent my head forward and felt leather beneath my cheek. Gabriel began to thrust, rubbing his dick up and down the crack of my ass. The small metal teeth of his zipper scraped against my sides as he moved, drawing forth tiny fingers of pleasure.

I ran my tongue over the sleeve of his jacket. His hands held me tightly, and the touch of leather pressed against my naked skin made me want him more than I'd ever wanted anything. The fact that he was teasing me with his cock was almost too much.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please fuck me.”

But he didn't. He just pushed against me ever harder, until I was almost shaking from his touch. I was sucking at the sleeve of his jacket, licking the surface, biting at the small snaps at the cuffs. Behind me, the head of his dick taunted me with every push.

Then he was inside me. Pulling back, he found the opening of my hole and drove home. My head flew back as he entered, and I felt his arm around my throat, blocking my cries. I bit the sleeve of his jacket where it pressed against my mouth.

Then he began to fuck me, in long, slow strokes. As his rhythm filled my body, I began to shake. The pressure of his cock as it slid in and out of my ass brought everything into sharper focus. I felt the coldness of the air and the softness of his jacket. I drew the night air into my lungs and smelled mixed within it the scent of leather and desire.