Tangled Sheets

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “I think I’ll just sit for a while and enjoy the scenery,” I said, eyeing the outline of Brad’s cock where the water had soaked his shorts.

  “Suit yourself,” Brad answered. “I’m going in.”

  He shed his life vest and peeled off his tank top, revealing powerful, smooth pecs and a rippling stomach. Then he sat back and slipped off his shorts. His dick hung down between his legs, curving gently over a set of juicy hairless balls. Much sooner than I would have liked, Brad had slipped over the edge of the raft and was swimming away. His strong, even strokes carried him out into the river, where he turned and floated on his back, his beautiful prick resting on his stomach.

  “Might as well enjoy the sun,” Craig said. “It’s not too hot this time of day, so you don’t have to worry about getting burned.”

  He had also removed his shorts and was sitting with his back against the side of the raft, his legs spread. His head was thrown back, and his eyes were closed. One hand was between his legs, and he was rubbing his hairy ballsac, rolling his nuts between his fingers and tugging on them. His cock was stretched over one big thigh. Even half-erect, it was longer than most men are hard, the bulky shaft ending in a smooth, round head. He had no tan line, and like the rest of him, his cock was the color of honey.

  The sight of the big college jock spread out in front of me like that was all I needed. I quickly removed my clothes, freeing my own stiffening prick. Feeling the raft move, Craig opened his eyes and looked appreciatively at my piece of prime lawman meat and smiled. “Looks like the sun’s making everything grow today,” he said.

  I moved forward in the raft until I was kneeling in front of him. Running my hands over his wide chest, I felt the warmth of the sun where it had soaked into his skin. His nipples had stiffened in the slight breeze. Pinching them between my thumb and forefinger, I kneaded them until they were throbbing like tiny hearts in my hand, coaxing little moans from Craig’s throat.

  Craig lay back, putting his arms on either side of the raft and letting his hands drag in the water. Still massaging his tits, I bent down and took the tip of his cock in my mouth. My lips slid easily over the swelling head and down the shaft until I could feel the rough hair at the base tickling my tongue and my nose was engulfed in his bush. His crotch had a rich, musky smell to it that reminded me of a locker room. I pictured him in the locker room with his team after a game, and it made me horny as hell.

  As I worked my mouth up and down Craig’s rod, it grew harder and harder, swelling under the pressure from my tongue. Soon he was filling every bit of my throat, and there was no way I could keep his full length down my pipe. What I couldn’t suck in I pumped steadily with my hand, wrapping my fingers around his shaft so hard I could feel the vein that ran under his cock pulsing against my palm. With his hand on the back of my head, Craig gently thrust his hips against my face, slowly fucking my mouth. Each time he pulled almost out, I wrapped my lips around his cockhead and sucked eagerly, milking drops of sweet precum from his slippery slit.

  After a few minutes of working my throat, Craig pulled my head away. He shifted forward so that he was lying flat on his back and swung me around so that I was straddled over him, my cock hanging in his face. Wrapping his big arms around my waist, he pulled my hips down against his chest, slamming my prick into his throat. I was amazed at how easily he swallowed my dick without so much as taking a breath. This kid was one goddamn fine cocksucker, and I almost lost it as his throat muscles rippled along the length of my cock.

  As Craig sucked me, I rubbed my body against his hairy chest, grazing his nipples with my stomach, feeling the roughness of his beard on my balls where they slid over his chin. Looking down at his quivering prick, I found myself staring at his nuts. I’d wanted a taste of Craig’s huge balls ever since I saw him pulling on them, and now they were right in front of me, ripe for the picking. Letting my face sink down between his thighs, I pulled his horse nuts into my mouth and sucked them slowly, enjoying the feel of their roundness on my tongue. As I did, Craig fisted his meat under me, jerking roughly on his beautiful piece as I gorged myself on his hairy ball fruit.

  Sliding my tongue underneath his balls, I ran it lightly along the sensitive ridge that led to his asshole. Craig’s body jumped, and I felt the moan in his throat echo along my shaft where it was buried in him. He pulled his legs back, putting his hands behind his knees and pulling them apart so that I could look right into his crack. Like the rest of him, his ass was covered with fur. I buried my nose in the jungle between his cheeks, drawing the thick man scent that lay there into my lungs.

  Spreading his ass with my fingers, I ran my tongue down his valley, slurping at the hairy sides. Licking slowly, I worked my way into the delicious center of his jock butt. His hole was slick with sweat and my spit, and I slid inside him effortlessly, his ass ring closing around my tongue like I was sinking into warm water. He locked his muscular legs around my neck and pulled me even deeper, the hair on his legs brushing my face as I ate out his tasty hole. I slurped eagerly at his pink pucker, flickering my tongue in and out of him until he was pushing as hard as he could against me and moaning.

  I was really getting into feeling Craig squirm from the ass work I was giving him when a voice came from behind me. “I can’t leave you two alone for a minute, now, can I?” Brad was leaning on the edge of the raft, watching the proceedings with an amused smile on his face.

  He pulled himself up and into the raft in one quick motion. As he did, I noticed that his cock was hard as a rock, swinging up from between his legs and pointing toward his chest. Judging from the line of precum that drooled down the side of his tool, I guessed he must have been watching us for quite a while. Drops of water dripped from his balls, plopping heavily onto the rubber floor of the raft. “I think it’s time to show you just how rough this water can get,” he said, slipping into place behind me.

  Brad knelt, his legs on either side of Craig’s head. Taking his prick in his hand, he ran the still-wet head over my back, tracing a path over the skin just above my crack. Then, with one strong hand gripping my cheeks, he spread my ass and slipped a finger into my waiting hole. As his finger slipped through my butt door and slid into my burning chute, he pulled roughly on my balls, tugging them away from Craig’s hungry mouth and holding them in his fist. My sphincter tensed around his finger, and it took all I had to keep from filling Craig’s throat with a load of jism.

  Once Brad had me loosened up, he pressed the head of his prick against my hole. I’d seen the size of his throbbing knob, and I knew it was going to be a real tight fit, but I wasn’t prepared for the fire that ripped into my ass as Brad shoved his thick piece all the way into me. It was a good thing Craig’s cock was buried in my throat, or I would have screamed for sure.

  Brad lay against me for a minute, his arms locked under my stomach. His skin was still wet from his swim, and the water that dripped from his hair felt cool against my baking back. I tried to relax my ass muscles, letting my butt adjust to his thickness. Brad pumped against me in small, short thrusts, stretching my hole until the pain subsided and he could slide back and forth without tearing me to shreds. I could feel every movement his prick made inside me, like a piston sliding home inside a well-oiled machine.

  As Brad gunned his cock in and out of my shitter, I slicked the length of Craig’s pole with my spit, greasing him up until he flowed into my mouth like butter. The feeling of being filled by Brad’s dong from behind and Craig’s heavy artillery from the front was fantastic. Craig was still licking at my aching prick, and now he also had Brad’s bull balls hanging in his face. Whenever Brad would slam up against me, Craig would slurp at his balls for an instant before Brad pulled them away again, dragging his nuts across Craig’s face.

  I’d almost forgotten we were on the water, but Brad’s fucking reminded me, sending ripples underneath the smooth rubber skin of the raft like the muscles of a large animal tensing. The rocking of the waves also put Craig’s and my bodies into motion.
As Brad pumped me harder and harder, the raft rose and fell, sending our cocks sliding in and out of each other’s throats with every thrust.

  As the raft rocked back and forth in the water, we became like one big wave, rolling and swelling inside and against each other like swirling water, filling mouths and assholes with inch after inch of white-hot heat. Each time Brad’s dick pressed into me, my own prick swelled inside Craig’s throat as the fucking filled my balls with a churning load. I knew it wouldn’t be long until I came, and I began to pump harder at Craig’s face. As my shaft slid against his lips, I felt Brad’s poker stiffen inside me. His hands clamped on my shoulders, and he pushed himself as far as possible into my churning butthole, his belly slapping against me like a hand across the face.

  Having Brad’s cock up my tight ass and Craig’s in my mouth made me lose all track of where we were, and I didn’t notice that the river had sped up. Suddenly I realized that we were moving along more quickly now, rolling over gentle swells. Behind me, Brad was groaning softly as he deep-dicked my aching hole. His motions matched those of the raft; he slammed every inch of his prick home as the raft slid over another wave, then pulled out as we rode the crest back up.

  Just then, the raft slid into a narrow gully between a row of stones and shot quickly down the rapids like a bullet. Water splashed off the rocks and over the front of the raft onto our fucking bodies. The sudden rush shoved Brad against me, and with a loud grunt he began to fill my butt with load after load of cum, his cock spurting wildly, stretching my ass walls. At the same time, he pushed me deep into Craig’s mouth. I felt his face against my stomach, and his lips clamped around the base of my cock. The combination of his warm mouth, Brad’s spewing prick, and the motion of the raft was too much. I felt a comet of spunk roar up from my balls and explode into Craig’s throat.

  As my juice flooded his mouth, Craig began to pump his rock-hard jock meat furiously. His fist flew up and down the shaft, his cock beating heavily against my cheek. Suddenly he pulled up hard, gripping his swollen head tightly, and let out a loud moan. Through the spray from the river I saw his balls pull up, and then my face was bathed in waves of sticky cum. Craig continued to jack his piece, sending more whitewash over my chest and neck until it dripped down onto his stomach like rain.

  As the raft exited from the end of the rapids, Brad slipped his still-hard prick out of my ass and sat back. He looked at Craig and me, exhausted and covered in each other’s juice, and grinned. “Not a bad ride, boys,” he said, stroking his cock. “And by my calculations we have about another hour until the next run of white water.”

  The Eye of the Beholder

  This story began with the image of a man eating an orange. It developed into a story about finding beauty in unexpected places. I think I was really tired of only seeing stories about young, perfect men.

  When I finally met Lorenzo Maschelli, he was eating oranges while a man with black hair and full lips sucked his cock. This took place in the back garden of Lorenzo’s house in Rome on a summer afternoon shimmering with pale golden light. Lorenzo was sitting in a wooden chair in the shade of an ancient birch tree surrounded by the bright bobbing heads of scarlet and pink poppies. He was naked, and the man, also naked, knelt between his legs with several inches of Lorenzo’s prick in his throat.

  Lorenzo was patiently separating the slices of an orange he had taken from a large blue bowl that sat on the table next to his chair, peeling the fiery curves one from another and slowly placing them between his lips. Holding the orange in his long, thick fingers, he looked like a giant pulling apart the various pieces of a small world and devouring them. His eyes were closed, and as he sucked the juice from each segment, the lines of his face registered his pleasure at the sweetness of the fruit.

  Not wanting to disturb him, I said nothing. The man looked up at me briefly when I first entered the garden, his dark eyes heavy with lust, and then went back to his work. Lorenzo himself took no notice of my presence, and I leaned against the trunk of the tree to wait. Despite the shade, enough light fell through the birch’s leaves to make me sweat through the thin white cotton shirt I had put on that morning. It was beginning to cling to my skin, and I was thinking wistfully about nightfall, when the city would be washed in the cool of evening.

  I had come to Rome to see Lorenzo and speak with him about art. A friend had shown me Lorenzo’s drawings, delicate pencils of men going about various activities in the nude, the previous spring. I had been enchanted by the strength and beauty of the figures and found myself drawn to them again and again. His subjects were the men of everyday life—a carpenter lifting a hammer to strike a nail, a farmer bending to check the soil, a priest about to settle a crucifix around his shoulders. Except for their nakedness, they appeared just as they would in life.

  But the most intriguing thing about Lorenzo’s men was that they themselves were not beautiful. Many were well into middle age, their bodies long since past the time when they would have been the objects of attention because of their youthful grace. Others simply had features that normally would have rendered them ordinary, eyes set too far apart, hands scarred by work, a nose slightly off center. They were the men that lifted nets of fish from the holds of ships wrapped in the mists of early morning, handed drinks to partygoers who never looked at their faces, polished the windows of buildings hanging on thin threads of steel above the heads of oblivious passersby. In a world of the young and beautiful, they went about their business unnoticed.

  Yet Lorenzo had managed to catch his subjects at points where the movements of their bodies were at their most natural and, as a result, the most beautiful, filled with an unconscious masculine strength that had the power to rouse the most sensual and unexpected responses from the viewer. The farmer, the head of his cock nearly touching the ground as he squatted in the familiar crouch of a man who works the earth, was even more connected to his element by the fact that he wore no clothes. The priest, his cross hanging against a bare chest, drew even closer to the God he served by virtue of coming before Him naked.

  Not everyone was pleased by Lorenzo’s work, and there were several outcries when public exhibitions were mounted. Still, his works elicited a fury of attention as word of their beauty spread throughout the art world like fire through brittle autumn leaves. His sketches quickly became the stuff of dreams as collectors tried to buy them up, only to find that they were not for sale. Lorenzo, who seemingly supported himself from what was assumed to be a family fortune, would not offer his work for money, refusing all requests for purchase.

  Satisfying my interest in his work by buying the several books that contained his drawings, I studied Lorenzo’s style feverishly, hoping to capture the essence of his figures and discover what connection he had to them that enabled him to render them with such exquisite effect. I attempted to copy what he had done, but my efforts resulted in lines that failed to leap off the paper in flesh and blood, and shading that suggested sallowness rather than the flush of muscle rising over bone.

  Finally, convinced that he held some secret that I had not been granted knowledge of, I set about finding him. After much searching, I was able to locate someone, a friend of a colleague’s sister, who knew Lorenzo, and had thus acquired his address in Rome. I wrote to him, telling him of my desire to learn from him, and he had responded with surprising generosity.

  Over the next months, we exchanged letters regularly, becoming as good friends as is possible when acquainted only by mail. But although asked several times what his method was, Lorenzo neatly avoided answering me time after time, instead writing vague comments about knowing his subjects and suggesting that his technique was not one that could be explained. I took his reluctance as an unwillingness to share his secret and stopped pressing him for information.

  Then, in the spring, Lorenzo suggested that I come to visit him in Rome and see his studio firsthand. I responded enthusiastically, convinced that if I hesitated even for a moment he would retract his offer, and we had arr
anged for my visit. After landing in Switzerland, where I had business with an art dealer who wanted to show some of my work in his gallery, I boarded a train for Rome, my excitement at finally meeting Lorenzo mounting steadily the closer I came to Italy. As the mountains slipped away outside my window and faded into the flat golden expanses of wheat fields, I created an image of him in my mind, erasing it several times and starting over as I decided upon new details.

  But any images I might have had of Lorenzo vanished when I entered the garden and found him with the black-haired man. I was surprised, certainly, to see him as he was. But something about the naturalness of his posture, the ease with which he and the young man made love, prevented me from leaving in embarrassment or training my eyes elsewhere. I felt as though I had his unspoken permission to watch, and studied him carefully.

  I guessed that he was almost fifty. His hair was rinsed through with silver, and his skin was tanned the color of stained wood. Tall and trim, his body was neither heavy nor muscular, settling about him comfortably like a familiar coat. His skin was brushed with thick hair that swirled over his chest and abdomen, and his cock, long and thin, stood up proudly between his legs as the man ran his tongue over its considerable length. The man himself was very large and muscular, with the body of a laborer. The smooth mounds of his ass cheeks rested on his heels as he rocked back and forth. He also had a good-sized erection, which he was stroking slowly as he sucked, his balls swinging with the motion of his hand.

  Lorenzo continued to eat the orange, every so often reaching down to rub the man’s neck and push him farther onto the flesh that slid in and out of his mouth. He pulled gently on his hair, and the man moved his mouth to Lorenzo’s heavy balls, mouthing them softly as Lorenzo jerked himself to climax. A splatter of white spewed from his cock like a net cast out by a fisherman, landing on his chest and on the man’s wide face. Several more strands of heavy cream streaked over the hair of Lorenzo’s belly, falling in thick lines across his torso as his hand pumped the last drops from his balls.