Tangled Sheets

by Michael Thomas Ford

  I stand in the shadows of the doorway and watch him moving around the bag, pummeling it while his trainer shouts instructions at him. His face is set, his dark eyes intense. He has been working out for some time, and his muscled body is dripping in sweat. His short black hair falls over his eyes in wet strands, and his unshaven jaw is shadowed with the stubble of a beard. The thick swirls of hair on his chest are wet with the streams of sweat that run down his sides, and the trail of hair on his belly shines with tiny drops.

  I have wanted him for a long time but have been afraid to even speak to him. Whenever we pass in the hallway, I hold my breath as his skin brushes against mine, feeling the heat of him pulse though me where our bodies have touched. I have longed to see him naked, but I fear that he will sense my lust at seeing his unclothed body and be angered by it. Whenever I see him come into the showers, his thick cock swinging between his legs, I leave quickly and go home to jerk off thinking about servicing him.

  But tonight is different. It is summer and very hot. The air is thick with the threat of rain, and I need to feel another man’s hands on my body, his lips against mine. After too many nights spent lying in my bed and fantasizing about him, I have come to the gym to meet my fighter, to tell him what I need from him, to give him what he will take from me. I know I am taking a chance, but I can’t wait any longer.

  He finishes with the bag and does a quick series of push-ups on the dirty gym floor, the heavy muscles in his arms bunching and releasing as he presses his body down and up again. When he is done, his trainer laces a pair of gloves onto his hands. Then he places a mouth guard between the big man’s lips and sends him into the ring to face his sparring partner, a large black man in red-and-blue trunks.

  They knock their gloves together to signal the start of the fight and then begin to circle one another. My man has his head down and his fists at the ready, waiting for a break in his opponent’s guard. The black man throws several jabs at his chest, but my lover easily dodges them, leaving the man’s fist to poke at the empty air. He moves like a great dark animal circling its prey, and he is beautiful to watch.

  Then his break comes, and he lands a quick right to the other’s jaw, sending him reeling back in several unsure steps. The black man pauses for a moment, shaking his head. He is angry, and he rushes like a bull at the man I am waiting for. They come together, their fists landing randomly against one another’s bodies in a hail of punches that ends with them wrapped in each other’s arms. They stay entwined for a moment, breathing heavily, until the trainer pulls them apart. I watch them and think about holding him that way until my cock is so hard I think it will shatter if I touch it.

  They fight for several more rounds until they are both exhausted and the sweat pours off their bodies, every punch that connects with flesh sending a shower of wetness across the canvas of the ring. My lover’s trunks are soaked, clinging to his thick hairy thighs. I want to pull them from him and suck the wetness from his prick, to taste his bitterness on my tongue while his fingers entwine themselves in my hair.

  The battle ends when the dark man goes down, the casualty of my fighter’s instincts. He has landed a solid blow to the other man’s face, and there is blood on the floor of the ring, blood that runs from the fallen man’s nose and across his open lips. My lover stands over his prostrate body triumphantly, his gloved hands at the ready in case he should somehow rise again. When he realizes that it is over, he returns to his corner, where his trainer gives him a drink of water and unlaces his gloves.

  I wait inside the locker room for him, watching him come closer to me as he walks across the gym floor. I am wearing nothing but a towel around my waist, as though I am just about to enter the showers, and I know that my hardened cock is visible. My heart beats harder and harder inside my chest as he nears, and several times I think about running away. But my desire for him is too strong now, and I can’t go back. When he enters the room, I keep my eyes on his face. When he looks back at me, then down at my prick, I force myself not to turn my eyes away. He moves across the room toward me, and I feel my body start to tremble as he nears.

  Before I can think, it has begun, just as it does in my dreams. Without a word his hands, still taped, come up and slip behind my neck, pulling me into his body. I feel his strong fingers gripping me tightly as his mouth covers mine. His tongue pushes roughly between my lips and he is kissing me. I put my hands on his broad back and feel the mingled sweat and heat on his skin as I run my fingers over the tight muscles of his shoulders and down his spine to the space just above his ass.

  The smell of him fills my head and makes me dizzy with lust. I want to melt into his body, to be consumed by him here in this place that is so much a part of him, so filled with his presence. I run my tongue along the muscles of his neck, licking up his sweat and feeling the roughness of his beard on my lips. The rasping of the hair on his torso against my body is electric. His hands go down to my towel and strip it from me, leaving me naked in his arms. My hard-on presses against the wet silk of his boxing shorts, and I can feel that his cock is stiffening as well.

  His hands go to my shoulders and push me down to my knees. I kneel before him, looking up at his handsome face from between his legs. His dark eyes bore into me and command me to do what he wills. Reaching up, I grab the waistband of his shorts and pull them down his legs. He lifts his feet and I pull the trunks off completely. The material is soft and wet in my hands, and I bury my face in it, breathing in his scent and licking at the sweat-soaked cloth.

  He is wearing a jockstrap, and his swollen cock pushes against the pouch. Leaning forward, I cover the barely covered tip with my mouth, sucking on it through the mesh. My hands wrap around his thick calves and slide up his legs to feel the full mounds of his hairy ass while I run my mouth over the length of his big tool, soaking the jock with my spit. When I can’t wait another second, I slip my fingers under the narrow straps that cross his ass cheeks and pull the jock down, freeing his engorged piece.

  Fully hard, he is even bigger than I imagined. Long and rigid as steel, the shaft is smooth and straight, the cut head round and perfectly halved down the center. His ballsac is heavy and covered in hair, the twin eggs hanging down between his thighs while his cock points out at me waiting for my lips. I lean forward and slide him into my throat, so hungry for him I take his whole length in one smooth movement until his thick bush is pressed against my lips.

  My fighter wastes no time. He fucks my mouth in long, fierce strokes, his balls banging against my chin while he delivers blow after blow. My lips slide along his thick shaft lovingly as he shoves in and out of my mouth, and I lick up the drops of precum that ooze from his burning piss slit like they are water that will cool my burning throat. But nothing quenches my need for this man. I want more and more of him and could suck his cock forever. I savor every inch of his stud pole as he thrusts in and out of me.

  I can tell my lover is going to come by the way his fingers clench in my hair and move my head more quickly along his shaft. I want to taste him roaring down my throat, to feel his cum pour into me. But he pulls out suddenly and uses his hand to bring himself off. After only a few jerks from his big paw, the first blast rockets from his prick and slams into my face, covering my mouth with a sticky smear of heat. More follow, coating my cheeks and nose in his spunk, and I lick it up greedily. I open my mouth and he shoots inside it, covering my tongue with his juice.

  The taste of him fills me with new desire. I want to be taken by him, invaded by him. When I see that his cock is still hard, I know that he wants it, too. I lie back on the floor and spread my legs for him. He kneels, spreading me with his hands as he pushes between my thighs. My legs slip over his shoulders, and I feel him pressed against my ass. My cock is hard against my belly, and he grips it in his fist. The tape that is wrapped around his fingers scratches against my sensitive head as he milks a stream of precum from it, but the feeling only heightens my yearning.

  He takes his fingers and finds my wait
ing asshole. Using my own precum, he slicks my tight opening and pushes a finger inside me, making my prick jump and drawing soft moans from my lips. He fingers me slowly, opening the way for his dick. When he feels that I am loosened, he removes his hand and replaces it with the tip of his big piece. He leans forward and drives himself into my ass.

  I cry out as he fills me, the thickness of his tool stretching me out cruelly. I love the way he feels, the way his head plunges into my depths and opens me up. He is being driven solely by his need to empty himself in me, and he thrusts quickly and savagely, the way he fights his opponents in the ring. His hands grip my legs tightly as he fucks my willing ass, and his eyes look at me teasingly. He knows that I would do anything for him, and that makes him fuck me even harder.

  While he plows me, I jerk my cock, which has become sore and aching from holding back my load for so long. My movements match his, and soon we are moving in perfect rhythm with one another, my hand stroking up as he enters me and pressing down into my balls as he leaves. It’s not long before we’re both ready to come.

  I wait for him to begin shooting inside my hole before I permit myself release. When I feel the first blast of him splatter my walls, I let go, my whole body shaking as stream after stream spurts from my overworked dick and covers my chest in ropes of heavy cream. We come together in long, agonizing shudders until we are both spent.

  After he pulls out, we go into the showers, where we wash one another under the hot water, using soapy hands to bring our cocks back to life. Then my bruiser needs another round in my ring before he’s satisfied.

  Revelation

  I am deeply interested in religion, particularly in how people respond to crises of faith. Many people have asked me whether the man in this story is an angel or a demon. I don’t think it matters, so I leave that question for you to answer for yourself.

  Father John Maguire was not having a good day. Morning Mass had been sparsely attended, with only a handful of the homeless looking for somewhere warmer than the subway grates to rest for a few moments facing him from his perch in the pulpit. Oddly, some of them seemed to know the complicated ritual of sitting and standing as well as, if not better than, his usual parishioners. They had listened attentively to his message about the Crucifixion, their unwashed faces staring up childlike and wondering, then left to resume their hunt for discarded cans and leftover sandwiches.

  The afternoon had not fared much better, spent in the tight confines of the confessional listening to the weekly laundry list of petty misdemeanors of a young woman by the name of Rose Mahoney. A thin, lipless girl who whispered her transgressions from behind the screen as if she were passing on the secrets of life and death, Rose normally came for her weekly absolution with little of interest to tell him. This week’s admitted sins included the imbibing of several glasses of cooking sherry, the occasional taking of the Lord’s name in vain and, rather unexpectedly, a fleeting lustful thought and temptation to masturbate, for which Maguire rewarded her with three Hail Marys, impressed by her progress.

  Once the girl had gone, Maguire had sat thinking in the airless cell for several hours, ignoring the calls of his assistant. He had remained there until the bells began to ring for vespers, and only then reluctantly dragged himself wearily from the comforting darkness. Rain was pouring down Amsterdam Avenue, and the candles scattered throughout the sanctuary did little to drive out the shadows of the November dusk. The few people who scuttled in beneath their umbrellas greeted him cursorily and headed to their seats, wrapped in unhappiness and damp coats.

  When the final bell pealed, Maguire plodded the length of the sanctuary and climbed once more behind the pulpit. As he looked out at the scattered figures waiting for him to begin, the church suddenly seemed too large, the stone walls rising up and disappearing into the eaves. The stained-glass windows, with their colorful depictions of the saints and apostles, frowned down upon him with disapproving eyes. The altar boys moved about the sides of his vision like moths flapping around a flame. His head began to pound horribly, and he thought for a moment that he might faint.

  As he was trying to clear the ache in his temple, one of the big wooden doors at the end of the sanctuary opened with a crash and a man entered, bringing the wind and the rain with him. From behind the pulpit, a crack appeared in the gloom that had enshrouded Maguire, and everything else faded into shadow as he looked up and his eyes were drawn to the stranger standing at the back of the church. While he could not see the man’s face, he could see that he was tall and muscular, with the powerful body of someone accustomed to hard work. His short black hair was slick with rain, clinging to his head like wet leaves, and he wore dirty jeans and a battered black leather jacket.

  He shut the door behind him with a shove of one black boot, then ran a hand through his hair, scattering rain and leaving it slightly tousled, a stray shock falling across his forehead. He walked slowly up the aisle and took a seat in the last row. Leaning back, he placed his boots on the back of the pew in front of him and put his hands along the back of his own seat. Besides Maguire, no one seemed to take the least notice of either him or his unorthodox behavior, even though one big boot was perilously close to the head of one of the more elderly members of the congregation and one arm hung loosely about the shoulders of George Pederson, the head deacon and a local banker of no small wealth.

  Pulling his gaze from the man’s face, Maguire continued with the service. Whoever the man was, his apparent invisibility to everyone else was not something the priest wanted to think about. He concentrated instead on the notes in front of him, which he had hastily scribbled a few minutes before the last person had sat down. The theme of his sermon was faith, something he now had very little of, and he was trying his best to muster up some semblance of sincerity. He had had it once, in abundance. As a student at St. Anselm’s Seminary he had believed wholeheartedly that the world was a good place that only needed a little of his help to become a wonderful one.

  But ten years of patient serving had worn him down. Things had only gotten worse, and the clear, bright joy that he had once conjured up so easily had faded into a heavy stone in the center of his chest. As he watched the parishioners of St. Mary’s grow older and increasingly more unhappy despite his weekly attempts to show them that faith could wake them out of a spiritual stupor, he had become more and more bitter and doubtful. Now the ritual of proclaiming a belief in something he couldn’t see was beginning to appear to him as the act of a madman talking to spirits.

  He managed to finish his sermon without faltering, feeling the whole time the man’s gaze on him like a shadow. The service over, he gave the call for Communion, and a line began to form as people shuffled slowly into the aisles and came forward to kneel at the mahogany rail in front of the altar. Maguire dutifully approached the first celebrant, attempting to avoid looking into her face. It was when he saw the faces that he was the most saddened, seeing in the eyes and the nervous set of the jaw as they opened their sticky mouths to receive the wine and the host that they were drawn forward more by guilt than by joy. Often he had to fight back an overwhelming urge to smack them forcefully across the cheeks, instead whispering “the blood of Christ, shed for you,” playing his part in their weekly pantomime.

  He moved swiftly through the row of partakers, administering first the wine and then the wafers, like a spiritual vending machine doling out candy for the soul. They came in waves, falling onto the worn velvet cushions before the rail and retreating again once they were fed, like seabirds scavenging the beach for picnic scraps. When he came to the end of the last row, he saw the hands clasped on the rail and knew instantly that they belonged to the man from the last pew. The fingers were long and thick, the pale moons of the nails clipped neatly and evenly. Black hairs sprinkled the knuckles, and he could see that the same hair began again at the solid wrists. There was a thin, pale scar running over the back of the left hand, disappearing into the cleft between the middle and ring fingers.

  Magui
re studied the hands for a moment, wondering what had made the scar and marveling that such work-hardened hands could be so clean; he had expected to see a fine coating of oil or paint on them. Then he remembered the cup in his hands and stirred back to life. Moving his gaze up, he saw that the man wore a dark blue shirt, the first two buttons undone to reveal a patch of dark hair at the throat. Looking further, he saw that the man was looking back at him intensely, and that he had large, dark eyes that glinted faintly with gold, like stones streaked with precious metal. His nose was straight and perfectly rounded at the end, and his wide jaw narrowed into a stubble-dusted chin with a small cleft just below full lips.

  The man looked at Maguire expectantly, as if he were waiting for the priest to answer a question he already knew the response to. Fighting a strong urge to run, Maguire brought the cup to the man’s mouth, noticing suddenly how heavy the chalice felt against his palm, which was trembling. As he tipped the cup forward, he watched the sensuous lips part, allowing the dark wine to flow over them. A drop slipped and began to run down the man’s chin, and Maguire wiped it away quickly with the cloth. He did not, as was his usual custom, wipe the edge of the chalice where the man had drunk from it.

  Returning the cup to his acolyte, he took a wafer from the pile on the plate, wondering at the thinness of it as he held it lightly between his fingers. He waited for the man to hold out his hands to take the bread, as most of them did, but he simply raised his head and opened his mouth to be fed. Maguire held out the wafer, placing it on the outstretched tongue and reciting, “The body of Christ, broken for you.” As he received the host, the man opened his mouth slightly wider, taking in not only the sacrament but Maguire’s finger as well. The priest felt the warmth of his lips as the man closed his mouth, then sucked softly, his tongue enfolding Maguire’s finger. The rest of his hand was holding the man’s chin and he felt the unshaven beard pressing against his palm.