Tangled Sheets (42 page)

Standing up, I straddled him, sitting on his stomach. My legs stretched over his waist and his hands gripped my ass cheeks as I leaned down to suck on his nipples. He groaned as I bit one softly, and I felt his dick jump beneath my ass. While licking his tit I slid myself along his hairy body, enjoying the sensation of him against my smooth skin, the way the hair tickled my balls and the head of my prick. I could feel his cock slipping along my ass crack and lifted myself up so that the big tip pressed against my hole.

Giovanni was more than ready for me, and he pushed into me urgently as I lowered myself down onto his fat prong until I could feel his wrinkled ballsac brush the fingertips of my bound hands. The walls of my chute swelled as his flesh filled me tightly, and I knew I was going to be sore as hell later. Still, I pressed down until I was sitting on his stomach again, his whole piece lodged inside me. “I knew you'd have one sweet ass,” he said breathlessly. “But this is even better than I expected.”

That was all I needed to get going. Rising up, I slid up Giovanni's fuck stick until just his knob was inside me, then went back down again. His hands cupped my ass as I rode him, and after a few minutes he began to lift his hips up to meet my asshole. Soon he was pounding in and out of my chute mercilessly, my balls slapping his stomach as his ass rose off the bench repeatedly, coming back down with muffled slaps.

I'd never been fucked so hard before and never enjoyed having a cock up my ass so much. When he took my dick in one hand and began to jerk me off, I knew it would all be over soon. Giovanni began to moan loudly, and I could tell from the way his cock became even harder that he was near the edge. “Shoot your load in my butt,” I said. “Fill it with your hot cum.” His eyes clouded over. “I'm going to blow in your ass,” he gasped, and held my waist as he pulled me down onto his weapon.

My chute filled with sticky warmth as he released torrent after torrent of cop jism deep in my bowels, each blast exploding inside me like a gunshot. I came with him and watched as my dick splattered his chest and the floor with load after load. He kept pumping me with his hand as I came, and soon his fingers were thick with my juice.

After we both finished blowing our loads, I collapsed against his chest. He was still hard, and I felt his cum slipping down the walls of my ass as he pulled out of me and sat up. “I guess I can take these off now,” he said, grinning as he held up the small silver key that unlocked the handcuffs. “Somehow I don't think you'll be running away any time soon.”

“Oh, please don't, Officer Giovanni,” I said jokingly, rubbing my freed wrists. “I kind of liked them.” He laughed. “Just call me Mike,” he said, using what was left of my shirt to wipe the cum from his belly and then starting to get dressed. “It's really Michelangelo, but only my mother still calls me that.” He picked up his sweat-stained T-shirt and tossed it to me. “Here,” he said. “Wear this. I'm afraid yours is out of commission.” I pressed the shirt to my face and inhaled the musky smell of him, then pulled it over my head. Because he was bigger than I, it settled around my body loosely, and it made me horny just knowing that he had worn it.

Mike must have noticed the smile on my face, because he came over, put his arms around me, and gave me a long, deep kiss, his tongue sliding between my lips. When he finally pulled away, he picked up his gun belt and fastened it around his waist. “Time to get back to work,” he said. “But how about I come over when my shift ends? I've got a feeling you and I have just started to get to know one another.”

“Sounds fine by me,” I said, straightening his hat. “But maybe you should ride with me to my stop. After all, you never know what kind of people are riding the trains this time of night.”

E
ven before I opened the ominous blue envelope lurking in my mailbox like some deadly creature waiting for its dinner, I was overcome by an intense feeling of imminent eternal damnation. There were no clues to its contents on the envelope, just the fateful words Official Business printed in tidy letters in the right-hand corner. Not even a return address. I tried to tell myself it was just another sweepstakes notice, or another one of the endless stream of feminine-hygiene-product circulars I seemed to always be getting that told me how I could feel fresh and smell like a field of daisies. At the worst, I allowed myself to think that it might be a jury-duty notice, and was oddly comforted by this idea.

But once I opened it, my worst fears became instant reality. There it was in black and white, a letter requesting the honor of my presence at a meeting with the jolly tax men. I was supposed to appear at the local IRS office in three weeks with all of my “pertinent receipts and forms,” ready to discuss “a possible error in the computation of your 1991 return.”

1991? I couldn't even find the receipts for groceries I bought that morning; how the hell was I supposed to find a bunch of ancient documents from before the dawn of man? I spent the afternoon rummaging frantically through my hopelessly unordered file cabinet. All that was left in my optimistically created tax file were four taxi fare slips, assorted receipts for things I didn't even remember buying, and a check stub from a restaurant that had some guy named Sean's phone number on it.

“That's really too bad,” said my friend Mark helpfully that afternoon when I called him to bemoan my fate. After a dozen moves, Mark still has every receipt for everything he's ever bought in his entire life, alphabetized in labeled storage boxes in his closet. If he needed to, he could produce an item-by-item list documenting everything from the first bicycle he bought when he was twelve to the dildo he picked up on a trip to Amsterdam. He, of course, has never been audited.

“Let me borrow your receipts for the day,” I suggested hopefully. “I promise I'll bring them back safe and sound.”

“Not on your life,” he said. “You're a writer. Why don't you just make them up? I think Ellen did that once. You could ask her how she did it.”

In my moment of need, this actually sounded like a very good idea. I hung up and went right to work. Racing to the office supply store, I snatched up an adding machine that printed receipts. Then I found ink cartridges in assorted colors, thinking that I could cleverly use them to make it look like the receipts all came from different places. At the checkout counter, I carefully pocketed the receipt so that I could write everything off next year as a business expense. I returned to my apartment triumphant.

Four and a half hours later, I called Mark back. “You are an evil bitch,” I said venomously, trying to wipe four different colors of ink from my hands and in the process sending all of the thousands of bits of paper on my desk fluttering onto the floor. “Have you ever tried making up receipts for your entire life? Not only do you have to go by the assumption that you actually do something that would warrant deductions, but you have to make all of the pieces of paper match the totals you put on your forms. Do you have any idea just how many reams of paper you have to buy to equal nine hundred and fifty-two dollars?”

“It's not your entire life,” he said defensively. “It's just a year. Besides, I told you Ellen did it.”

“I called Ellen,” I said evenly, smudging my face with green ink as I yanked a cartridge out of the adding machine. “She said that not only did they grill her for six hours about her deductions until she started to cry, she ended up paying two thousand dollars in fines on a six-hundred-dollar bill. She said it was only last week that she could ask for a receipt from a cab driver without bursting into tears, and that's after eight months of nondeductible therapy.”

“You're hysterical,” said Mark. “I think you need to lie down.”

“I think you need to bite me really hard,” I shrieked. “You'd better give me those receipts of yours, you little creep. Besides, you owe me. Remember when you gave Jim crabs and you told him you got them at the gym? And I told him I had them, too, just so he wouldn't know about your little fling with that delivery boy from the bodega. Pablo, or Paco, or whatever it was.”

“It was Pedro, and Jim and I broke up weeks ago,” said Mark sullenly. “If you called more, you'd know that.”

“When I get a hold of you,” I started, but Mark hung up, making weird humming noises and saying that someone was buzzing his apartment. “Maybe you'll meet someone nice in jail,” he said right before the line clicked off.

That night I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling and thought about the worst that could happen to me. Would I actually have to go to prison? I had no idea. In my mind I conjured up a vision of a cell, small and airless with bunk beds and a single dirty sink. I created a cellmate named Hank. A big brute of a man, he was in for armed robbery and shooting a cop. I gave him a thick cock and fat, hairy balls that he liked to play with while he jerked off in the bunk above me, the springs creaking rhythmically.

Surprisingly, my prick responded to my little fantasy and stiffened almost immediately. As I stroked it I let the scenario become even more wild. I pictured Hank ripping my orange prison uniform off me and fucking me senseless on the stained floor of the cell while I begged him for mercy. His prick slid in and out of my burning ass as he plowed me in full view of the other inmates. They in turn all jerked off watching us, their hands pumping fat rods until they gushed thick loads all over the concrete floors of the jail.

By the time I came I couldn't care less about my audit. As I shot my load all over my stomach I was ready and willing for them to take me away to Hank and his big cock. I could almost feel him emptying a gusher deep in my shitter. In my delirium I actually believed that everything would work out all right. But then the moment was over and I came to my senses. As cold cum slid down my sides onto the sheets I realized I was screwed but good, and it was the IRS and not Hank who would do the screwing.

For the next three weeks, I had a recurring dream where I was tied to a chair while a group of faceless men in badly fitting suits and wide ties shone bright lights in my face and tried to get me to tell the truth about my finances. “Where are all of your receipts?” they screamed in unison. I'd try to give them an explanation, but every time I said anything, a big red light over my head flashed and a robotic voice cried out, “Lying. Lying. Lying.” I woke up every morning drenched in sweat with my pillow over my face.

The morning of my audit, I scraped together my meager pile of tattered receipts and put them into my briefcase. I was still clinging desperately to the vain hope that maybe all of this was a big mistake and they would just let me go home. I thought about wearing a suit, then remembered that I didn't own one. I decided jeans and a T-shirt would make me look more at ease anyway. I did, however, decide to walk to the IRS office. I didn't want to look too wealthy by showing up in a cab. I told myself I wasn't being paranoid. Somehow, I just knew they would know all of these things.

The building itself was rather unimpressive. I had been expecting big marble halls and long corridors lined with doors and stony-faced guards in black uniforms. Instead, it was a fairly ordinary-looking office building, with windows that didn't open and blue carpeting the color of antifreeze. The receptionist was a large, middle-aged woman with too much make-up and a bad dye job that made her hair an odd shade of purple. It took me a minute to realize that she looked faintly like Barney. As I checked in, I hummed the purple dinosaur's moronic “I love you, you love me” song and wondered how years of watching people come to their executions had affected her mentally.

“Just wait over there,” she said flatly after looking long and hard at my signature and then staring at me with her eyes all squinted up. “Someone will be out to get you shortly.”

“Aren't they already out to get me?” I said jokingly. She didn't smile, and I retreated quickly.

I sat down and looked at the other people waiting. Most of them had thick files of papers, nicely ordered records of their expenses. Unlike me, they all looked calm and collected, as though they would be perfectly able to explain their four-hundred-dollar deductions for office supplies without breaking down and confessing that it was actually a trip to Provincetown with a hunky construction worker they'd picked up outside their apartment building. I remembered my handful of receipts and wanted to die. I thought about running out or faking a cardiac event, but a voice interrupted my daydreams.

“Mr. Caffrey?”

I looked up. Standing in the hall was a man holding a file. He was looking around expectantly, like a lion searching for the one antelope in the herd with a gimp leg.

“Here,” I said, feeling like I was once more in Mrs. McGuffey's second-grade class.

“Come with me, please,” the man said. He held out his hand as I stood up. “I'm Mr. Mitchell. I'll be performing your audit today.”

I tried to detect any trace of glee in his speech, but he gave no indications of his attitude toward my impending torture as he shook my hand. His grip was firm, and I hoped my palm wasn't too sweaty. As we walked down the hall to his office, I tried to get a sense of what Mitchell was like. He seemed to be in his late thirties. Several inches shorter than my six feet, he was built compactly. His face was handsome, kind of like the models you see in department-store circulars every year around Father's Day posing in knit polo shirts and khaki shorts. He was wearing suit pants, but the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled back, revealing forearms covered in thick dark hair. At least I'd have something good to look at while I died a slow, agonizing death.

When we reached his office, Mitchell ushered me in and closed the door behind him. The office was small and a little airless, but there was a window that let in some sun. Mitchell's large wooden desk was covered in papers and stacks of files in precipitous piles that seemed on the verge of collapsing. He gestured to a chair across from his paper-cluttered desk and I sat down, gripping my briefcase tightly. He settled into his chair and opened my file.

“Well then,” he said, “I guess we should get started. The sooner we begin, the sooner you can get out of here. As the letter you received states, we have some questions about your 1991 return.”

I tried to smile, managing what could only have looked like a death grimace. “Ask away.”

Mitchell pulled something from my file and looked it over. “It says here that you're a writer.”

“That's right,” I said.

“What do you write?”

I hesitated. Lately I'd been making most of my money writing porn. I wasn't sure telling Mitchell that was going to help me out any. “I write a lot of different things,” I said vaguely. “Books. Magazine pieces. Whatever comes along.” I smiled reassuringly. “Church bulletins,” I added impulsively.

He looked at me strangely and nodded. “Well, you know, the deductions professional writers can take can be kind of tricky. I'd like to go over some of your deductions and just make sure everything is okay. As long as you have receipts for everything, though, there shouldn't be a problem.”

For the next hour and a half, Mitchell went over every deduction I'd claimed. One by one, he asked to see receipts for my taxi fares, business dinners, postage costs, and miscellaneous items. When he found out time and again that I didn't have any receipts, he just shook his head. By the time we'd reached my six-hundred-dollar deduction for computer equipment, I was about to cry.

Mitchell put down my file and looked at me. “Do you mean to tell me you don't have receipts for any of these things, Mr. Caffrey?”

“Well, you know, my apartment isn't very large,” I started. “And there isn't much closet space.”

Mitchell's face was blank. “All right,” I said. “I give up. Why don't you just figure out how much I owe and we can call it a day.”

“Well, there are a few other things I think we need to clear up, Mr. Caffrey. For instance, this $79.97 for magazine subscriptions in May. What exactly is that?”

I couldn't bring myself to tell Mitchell that those were for my subscriptions to
Advocate Men
and
Freshmen.
He already had me by the balls, and I didn't want to give him any ammunition. I briefly considered telling him they were for
Good Housekeeping
and
Field and Stream,
but I figured I was already in enough trouble.