Tangled Sheets

by Michael Thomas Ford

  The boy pushes back against me, impaling himself on my cock. I fuck him harder, smacking into his ass with enough force that his face comes dangerously close to hitting the wall each time I enter him. His hands are gripping the rim of the urinal, keeping him steady. I look at the tips of his fingers submerged in the yellow water, as if the blue ball of disinfectant that sits half-eroded in the center is some magical talisman he’s reaching for so he can return it to some weeping princess in exchange for her gold ring. The sight makes me want to come.

  The boy’s cock, which has been swinging between his legs as I fuck him, suddenly begins to shoot. Fat drops of his cum scatter over the floor as he empties himself, helpless, beneath me. Thick strings hang from the steel halo of his dickhead as his hole releases what seems to be an endless amount of jism. His cream mixes with the piss on the floor.

  I hear the man against the wall cry out as he, too, comes. I glance over to see him, eyes fixed on me and the boy, with his fist wrapped tightly around his spurting prick. He seems oblivious to the fact that his blasts are covering his work shirt in thick smears. His other hand holds his balls tightly, pulling them downward as he unloads onto his chest. Apparently, he has enjoyed the story.

  I figure it’s time for the happily ever after. I have used this boy’s hole enough. With a final thrust, I empty myself into him. I pause, holding for as long as possible the delicious moment between feeling my orgasm begin as a small tremble deep in my belly and releasing myself into his ass. This is the payoff, the treasure, right? This is what the hero gets for being a good boy and never straying from the path. Or maybe it’s the opposite—what he gets for straying from it. I’m never sure.

  I pull out and wipe my dick on the boy’s ass, leaving a smear of cum and shit on his milky skin. In the fairy tale, everything would be neat and clean and surrounded by the scent of roses. But this is real life, where people stink and shit and piss on a regular basis, where sex is about what’s left on your dick when you’re done.

  I button myself up and begin to leave the bathroom. Then I remember he has one more wish. The story can’t end yet. This is the part where he asks for something ridiculous, like my phone number or a kiss from the prince of his dreams or some other shit, and ruins the whole story. It’s where the whole thing collapses. I turn around. The boy is standing, looking at me. He has not pulled his pants up. His cock, still hard, juts out at an angle.

  “So, boy, what will it be?” I say. “What’s your third wish?” I wait for him to wish incorrectly, so I can tell him he’s fucked up and has to go back to being content with one of the ugly stepsisters waiting outside the door for their turn.

  He smiles. “Three more wishes,” he says.

  Okay, so maybe sometimes they don’t fuck it all up. Smart-ass boy.

  Downtown Train

  Believe it or not, this story was written one afternoon while I was listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter’s version of the classic Tom Waits song “Downtown Train.” Sometimes you just can’t help yourself.

  Because of the rain that had been pouring steadily since late afternoon, the rush-hour crowd was more anxious than usual to get home and out of the wet weather that had suddenly gripped New York in the middle of July. Added to the soaring temperatures, the rain had turned the whole city into a steaming jungle, leaving everything and everybody in it sticky, hot, and irritable. It was still raining when I left the office, and because I’d left my umbrella at home I was soaked through when I finally made it to the Fifty-first Street subway station.

  The platform was crowded with people waiting for the number 6 downtown, so when I saw the headlights of an approaching train I decided to wait for the next one. Being packed into a hot subway car is bad enough; being packed in with wet, unhappy people for forty blocks is sheer hell. I stayed in back and watched as people poured into the doors, scrambling to pull purses and umbrellas inside before they clanged shut. Finally, after the doors had banged open and closed several times as last-minute riders attempted to squeeze into overcrowded cars, the train left.

  A handful of other people had decided to wait for the next train as well and stood on the platform craning their necks out to watch for the telltale yellow dots on the horizon that signaled the next train. Fortunately, one came along only a few minutes later and, since there hadn’t been time for another crowd to gather, it was mostly empty. When the doors whooshed open, I stepped inside and dropped into the first open seat to wait for my stop at Astor Place.

  If you live in New York for any length of time and ride the subway regularly, you develop the habit of scanning the cars to see who you’re riding with. There were about a dozen other people in the car besides myself, including a couple of schoolgirls dressed in the usual plaid skirts and white blouses of the city’s Catholic institutions, but with the forbidden after-school additions of lipstick, chewing gum, and cigarettes in the front pocket. Apart from a scattering of business types, the only other occupants were an elderly couple carrying net bags bulging with apples and paper-wrapped parcels that smelled suspiciously like fresh fish.

  When the train pulled in to the Forty-second Street station, most of the riders got off to connect with trains at Grand Central that would take them out of the city. Several more people got on, including a transit cop, who stood in the doorway looking over the car. He surveyed the riders in the car and, satisfied that everything was in order, relaxed and leaned against the doorway as the train began its rattling voyage through the tunnels beneath the city.

  Since the cop was facing me, I found myself looking at him. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with an open, handsome face shaded by a day’s worth of stubble and deep brown eyes that were looking out from beneath his hat at the graffiti-scrawled walls flashing by the windows. He had his arms crossed in front of him, and his blue uniform was stretched tightly over his large, muscular body. Because of the heat, his shirt was open, and a line of black hair peered over the edge of his white T-shirt where it crossed his thick neck. Best of all, he had muscular forearms covered in soft black hair and thick wrists that ended in huge hands.

  Pretending that I was looking at an ad for laser hemorrhoid removal on the wall above his head, I tried to make out his name tag. Because of the way he was standing, all I could make out were the letters nni at the end. The rest was hidden from view. An Italian boy, I thought briefly. It figures. Italian men, especially big hunky ones like this cop was, have always been one of my biggest weaknesses. I kept stealing glances at him until finally he leaned to one side and the rest of the name came into view. Giovanni. I’d been right about the Italian part.

  Moving my eyes back down his body, I passed over the thick leather belt holding his revolver and nightstick and my eyes froze on the bulge between his legs. Even in the cheap-looking uniform I could tell that he was packing a big piece. There was a thick line running down the left side of his pants, and when he shifted his weight I saw his cock move with him. I could only imagine the beautiful pair of balls that must have been waiting behind the zipper of his pants. When he moved one hand to his crotch and squeezed slightly, it was all I could do not to drop to me knees and start sucking him off.

  Looking up, I saw that he was staring right at me, his dark eyes boring into mine. Oh shit, I thought, he caught me looking. I tried to pretend I was looking at someone next to him, but I knew he’d seen me. I hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt and wished I at least had a newspaper I could pretend to be reading. When he reached in his back pocket and pulled out his notebook, I waited for him to come over and give me a ticket. For what, I didn’t know—lewd staring or obvious perversion or fantasizing in a public place about a New York City transit cop with a beautiful big prick or something.

  To my surprise, he just turned his back on me. When I looked up, all I saw were the firm round globes of his meaty ass. While I would have liked to look at them for a little longer, I decided not to push my luck. I busied myself with looking in my briefcase for something until the next stop. Th
en, when the doors opened, the cop walked off the train and I breathed a sigh of relief. As the train pulled out of the station, I looked out the window and saw him strolling along the platform with another cop, laughing at some private joke. Probably telling his buddy about the queer who was checking him out, I thought as I got up and went to stand at the door to wait for my upcoming stop.

  As the train ground to a halt at Astor Place, I noticed that there was something on the seat where the cop had been standing. At first I thought it was just the usual ad for word-processing services or Madame Woo’s Fortune Palace, but it was too shiny. I picked it up and saw that it was a Polaroid snapshot. Flipping it over, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a picture of the cop. Only he was naked, wearing just his uniform hat as he lay on a bed. And he was sporting one of the biggest hard-ons I’d ever seen. His fist was wrapped around a massive cock, and his balls hung down like two overripe peaches between his hairy thighs. He was looking right into the camera, and I could see every line of his masculine face.

  I was so surprised by my find that I didn’t notice that the train had come to a stop until someone poked me in the back and said, “Let’s go, buddy, you’re blocking the door.” I quickly pocketed the picture and exited the subway, walking briskly through the turnstile and up the stairs to the street. Once I was in the daylight I was tempted to pull the picture out again and make sure it really was the cop I saw and not someone else. But it was still pouring, and the sidewalk was crowded with people, so I walked the few remaining blocks to my apartment as quickly as I could, the image of the big man stroking his prick burning in my mind as I fingered the photo in my pocket.

  The instant my door was shut and locked, I pulled the picture out of my pocket again and stared at it. There was no doubt about it, the man in the picture was the same cop I’d been staring at. All I could do was take in his wide chest, his big nipples, and most of all his beautiful dick. The big head was held tightly in his fist, and I could see drops of silvery precum slipping from the hole. My cock was starting to swell the longer I looked at the image in my hand and was pressing uncomfortably against my soaking pants.

  Going into the bedroom, I reluctantly laid the picture on my bedside table. Hurriedly pulling at my wet clothes, I tossed them on the floor and dried off with a towel. Naked, I climbed onto my bed and lay back against the pillows, the picture in my hand. As I tried to memorize every detail of the photo, I began to stroke my dick. It didn’t take long before it had stretched out to its full length and was lying flat against my stomach.

  I tried to imagine the circumstances surrounding the photo. Who had taken it? I figured it was his girlfriend who had snapped it, probably right before he’d pushed her over the side of the bed and fucked her lucky pussy with his big pole. She’d most likely given him head first, until his stalk was nice and stiff, and then they’d taken pictures of each other before getting down to fucking. I envisioned him coming up behind her after she’d put the camera down and sliding the tip of his prong into her from behind, his hands on her waist as he pushed the entire length into her box. I pictured her cunt lips spreading open as his manhood invaded her, imagined her whining as his thickness stretched her open.

  The idea of the big hunk using his cock on a willing hole was making me horny as hell. Reaching into the drawer of my bedside table, I pulled out a dildo and a bottle of lube. Propping the photo up on the table where I could look at it, I arranged the pillows behind me so that I could lean against them. Squirting some lube into my hand, I rubbed it into my anxious pucker, wetting the lips and slipping two fingers inside to stretch it a little. Then I slicked up the length of the dildo, a thick monster I could only get into my ass when I was really horny and needed a good hard fuck. Pulling my knees up toward my chest, I spread my legs and positioned the fat head at the entrance to my waiting chute. It hurt like hell as the tip invaded my asshole, but I kept my eyes on the cop’s face as I pushed inch after inch inside me.

  After a few minutes of pushing and relaxing, I felt the base of the dildo touch my ass cheeks. My entire shitter was filled with man meat, and my prick had responded by slopping out a load of precum onto my belly. With my free hand I scooped up some of the scum and used it to grease up my rod, which I pumped steadily while I got used to the size of the dildo. My butthole was twitching as it stretched to accommodate the girth, and I could feel the head pressing deep inside me. It felt great, especially when I imagined that it was Officer Giovanni’s tool in there.

  After a minute I tugged on the dildo’s base and slipped it out a couple of inches. As I did, I shut my eyes and pictured taking the cop’s fat prong up my ass. I could almost feel his hands on my chest as I imagined him penetrating me, his big fingers tugging at my tits as he worked my hole into a frenzy. I pulled the dildo out another few inches and then pushed it back in, groaning as it filled me again.

  I imagined him growling commands in my ear, his rough cheek scratching against my face as he lay on top of me. “Take my cock,” he’d order. “Take every fucking inch of it in that tight ass of yours.” I pulled the dildo out until just the tip rested inside my gasping sphincter, then rammed it home as I pictured his big nuts slapping against my butt cheeks. I could feel his warm breath against my neck as I fisted the dildo in and out, tearing at my chute until it was raw and sore. The whole time, the image of him fucking me played out across my mind.

  I could feel the load of cum ready to blast from my aching nuts and began to pump my dick faster, my fist sliding along on the skin of sticky precum that had been leaking steadily from my swollen head. Matching my strokes, I pulled up on my cock every time the dildo slid home in my butt, creating a smooth rhythm that quickly brought me to the edge. Just as I came, I opened my eyes and looked at the picture sitting on the nightstand. The first shot splashed onto my chest as I stared at the cop’s stiff tool and imagined it swelling with his load. As I pictured his chest drenched in cum, my balls responded by spewing out rope after rope of jism until I was covered in the stuff and it ran down my sides onto the bed. When the last spray had blasted from my overworked pipes I fell back against the pillows exhausted, my ass ring still clamped tightly around the dildo and the cop staring back at me, his cock still stiff and ready in his hand.

  Every time I looked at the picture that night I got hard immediately. I jerked off three more times, putting away the blueprints I was supposed to be working on for a client meeting the next morning and wanking off thinking about the stud cop. I still couldn’t figure out how he’d dropped the picture, or even why he had it in the first place. It must have been tucked inside the notebook he had in his pocket and fallen out when he opened it. I was just glad I’d found it. I was having better sex with the guy’s picture than I’d had with most real men.

  The next day I looked for Officer Giovanni on the train, but he was nowhere to be seen. The same was true for the next week; every day I’d wait to see him get on, to see his face looking in the subway door at me, only to go home disappointed. I had to content myself with going home and beating off to his picture every night. It wasn’t like I even had anything to say to him if I did see him, but I still checked every time the train pulled into Forty-second Street.

  Then, about two weeks after I’d found the picture, I saw him again. I had worked late at the office on a rush project, finishing up the final construction details on a house. At a little after midnight I had written in the last instructions and stumbled bleary-eyed into the station to catch the subway home. When the train came, I settled into my seat and waited for my stop, thinking about the treat that awaited me on my bedside table. I had almost fallen asleep when I felt a hand shaking me awake. “Hey, buddy, wake up,” a deep voice was saying. “I need you to come with me.”

  Startled, I looked up right into the face I’d just been thinking about. The cop was looking down at me, and his hand was still on my shoulder. I glanced at the name tag to make sure it was him. Sure enough, it was Giovanni. “What’s wrong?” I asked, confused. “You
’ve got to come with me,” he said again. “Let’s go.” Grabbing my upper arm, he pulled me to my feet and ushered me toward the door. The few other passengers in the car barely looked twice at us as he pushed me out onto the deserted platform. I didn’t even know which stop we were at.

  “I think you’ve made a mistake,” I said. “I don’t know what—” “Save it,” he interrupted as he pulled his handcuffs from his belt and snapped them around my wrists. “You and I have some unfinished business to attend to.” He didn’t say another word, pushing me in front of him as we moved along the empty platform toward the subway stairs. As I walked ahead of him, his hand gripping my arm, I tried to figure out what he wanted from me. He couldn’t know I was the one who’d found his picture. And even if he did, why did he have me in handcuffs?

  I started to get really nervous when, at the top of the stairs, he took a key from his belt and used it to unlock a door behind the token sellers’ booth. Neither of the two women sitting behind the glass looked twice as he pushed me through the doorway, and for the first time I found myself wishing that people in the city paid a little bit more attention to what was going on around them. When I heard a lock snap into place behind me, I knew I was in trouble. “Look,” I said, “If there’s some kind of problem here I’d like to know—” “I said shut up,” he barked, and I decided that I’d better listen to him.

  The cop led me down a narrow, dark hallway to another door, which he pushed open with his shoulder. He made a soft grunting sound as he opened it, and I felt warm breath hit my cheek. Shoving me through the doorway, he came right behind me. We were in a room lined with gray metal lockers. A couple of wooden benches were bolted to the floor, and along one wall heavy blue coats and empty equipment belts hung from wooden pegs. Tall black boots were arranged in ordered rows beneath them, the leather shining dully. It smelled faintly of sweat and heat, and I noticed that the air was moist, as though someone had recently taken a shower. It seemed to be some kind of police changing room.