Tangled Sheets

by Michael Thomas Ford

Genres: LGBT Gay

Synopsis

Hot And Bothered From Michael Thomas Ford, the critically acclaimed author of Last Summer and Alec Baldwin Doesn't Love Me, comes this sizzling collection of fantasies culled from more than a decade of his best erotic work. These stories of heat, lust, desire, need, and transformation--an Olympian bacchanal, a chance meeting in the men's room, an S&M-fueled "coaching" session, a police officer who'll do what it takes to get a confession--are as incredibly hot as they are exquisitely crafted. There's "Becoming Al," an "X-rated Flannery O'Connor story" that takes place on the stage at a male peep show. The mosh pit of an underground club brings two punks to the edge and over in the adrenaline-charged "Diving the Pit." A gorgeous window washer gives a worker drone some high-rise sex in "Washing Up." And the power of a young man's first sexual awakening--and the reunion it inspires twenty years later--lies at the heart of the achingly sensual "The Boys of Summer." Along the way, Ford turns up the heat by confessing the naughty personal thoughts that inspired his steamiest erotica. A visit to his incredibly sexy dentist led to Ford's delicious story of one explosive oral exam in "The Check Up." The summer sounds drifting up from the New York City streets on a hot summer night influenced Ford's sinfully sexy voyeuristic fantasy, "Wednesday, 2 A.M." A hunky conductor on a commuter train gave Ford lustful thoughts and a whole new meaning for the term "Riding the Rails." And the discovery of anonymous nude Polaroids gave birth to the no-holds-barred "Dirty Pictures." Hard-core, tender, imaginative, candid, and just plain hot, these stories prove that when it comes to erotica that's down-and-dirty AND intelligent, nobody does it better than Michael Thomas Ford.

Release date: December 10, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

In the fall of 1993 I became a pornographer.

don’t remember what prompted me to write that first stroke story—probably I was avoiding some other, less appealing, deadline—but I do remember receiving a letter a week or so after I mailed it off to the editor of Blueboy. He couldn’t, he apologized, pay me anything for the story, but he’d be happy to print it. Thrilled that someone actually liked my writing enough to publish it, I agreed (it would be the first and only time I worked for free).

After that, writing porn became a regular part of my routine. Every week I’d crank out something and send it off to one of the many men’s magazines that published such things. Before long, copies of Honcho, Torso, Mandate, Indulge, Advocate Classifieds, Men, and Freshmen began appearing in my mailbox, each one featuring one of my stories amidst the pictorials of men with hard cocks and spread ass cheeks.

The name I used on those early stories was Tom Caffrey. The Tom part is easy enough to figure out. Caffrey I stole from actor Stephen Caffrey, best known for his roles in the television show Tour of Duty and the film Longtime Companion, where he played the role of Fuzzy. Stephen, with his hairy body and rugged good looks, was a favorite fantasy of mine. I decided to model Tom after him, thus making it easier to describe Tom when he was one of the characters in a story.

Why the pseudonym, or nom de porn as I called it? At the time, I was primarily writing books for young readers. I’d recently published a book on AIDS for teenagers and was becoming well known in the world of children’s literature. I was already feeling some heat for being a writer who wrote about gay topics and who wrote for young readers, and I thought adding to that by putting my name on sex stories wouldn’t be the wisest career move. I suppose I could have used Mike Ford (which many people have said sounds like a porn star name anyway) but there was something intriguing about hiding behind a totally new identity.

To my surprise, Tom quickly became a favorite with readers of erotica. He was helped, in part, by having his stories included in John Preston’s enormously successful Flesh and the Word series of anthologies and in one of Susie Bright’s Best American Erotica collections. He also became a regular in the pages of Advocate Men and Freshmen, thanks to then-editors Fred Goss and Gerry Kroll.

Eventually I had enough stories to make a collection of my own, and in 1994 Hitting Home & Other Stories was released by BadBoy Books. A second collection, Tales from the Men’s Room, followed in 1996. In addition to writing my own stories, I also began editing various anthologies under my real name. I approached Cleis Press about launching a series of Best Gay Erotica titles, the first of which I edited with my friend Scott Heim (the usual “artistic differences” between myself and the publisher led me to leave the series after that initial collection, and it is now edited by the wonderful and skilled Richard Labonte). I also edited two collections of erotic fairy tales, one for women (Once Upon A Time) and one for men (Happily Ever After), which were published by erotica champion and unforgettable character Richard Kasak of Richard Kasak Books. These collections featured work by some of the most innovative voices in queer literature, including Dorothy Allison, Francesca Lia Block, Carol Queen, Pat Califia, Jennifer Levin, Heather Lewis, Linda Smukler, Cecilia Tan, Laura Antoniou, Bruce Benderson, Michael Lassell, Poppy Z. Brite, Thomas Roche, Lev Raphael, M. Christian, Larry Townsend, William J. Mann, and D. Travers Scott. To date they remain two of my favorite books, and I wish they were still available.

Eventually I got a little bit bored with the Tom stories and began to branch out, trying my hand at stories featuring women. For these I used a variety of pseudonyms, the most frequent of which was Lily August. Like Tom before her, Lily also developed a large following, and like Tom she appeared in the pages of the Best American Erotica series. Sadly, the market for lesbian erotica is not nearly as large as that for men, so Lily’s output remained relatively small. But the experience of writing from that vantage point was a lot of fun, and the Lily stories are some of my favorites.

Like all good things, my pornography career finally came to an end, mainly because I became more involved in writing the books that became the Trials of My Queer Life series. I put Tom, Lily, and my other alter egos behind me and moved on. But to my surprise, they continued to live full and happy lives all on their own. When I started touring to promote my first essay collection, Alec Baldwin Doesn’t Love Me, I found one or two people at every reading who wanted me to sign copies of Hitting Home or Tales from the Men’s Room (word had gotten out about me and Tom being one and the same). When BadBoy ceased operations and the books went out of print, I received hundreds of e-mails to my website asking where copies could be purchased.

So here, for the first time, I’ve collected my erotic stories. This book contains the material from those first two collections, as well as stories I wrote for other anthologies, stories written for magazines under the Tom Caffrey name and other pseudonyms, and pieces that haven’t been published anywhere at all.

Ten years ago, when these first stories were written, the gay erotica field was just beginning to explode. Writers and editors such as M. Christian, Laura Antoniou, Thomas Roche, Michael Rowe, and Pat Califia were releasing wonderful, groundbreaking work. We all grew up together and saw the world of sex writing change, moving from magazines to books to websites and then back again. We saw the market become glutted with badly conceived, badly written, and badly edited material. Most of us went into hibernation for a time, waiting for it to get better. Some of us are still in hibernation. But none of us will ever forget the fun we had.

I once received a fan letter, written to Tom Caffrey, that said, “I love your writing because it’s so much more literary than the other erotica out there. But when are you going to write a real novel?” Well, I have written real novels. And in most of them there’s sex. Why? Because writing is about capturing life on paper, and sex is a part of life. I started writing porn for fun and money. I kept writing porn because these stories gave me an opportunity to explore different types of writing, to play with creating scenes and moods and situations. I saw them as exercises of sorts, much as a pianist might practice scales or a pitcher might throw balls through an old tire hung from a tree branch. Some began with a single image I wanted to capture, while others were about confronting the characters with challenges and forcing them to make decisions. Yes, some of these stories are “just” about sex. But others are about much more.

One final note: Everyone always wants to know how much of a pornographer’s work comes from real-life experiences. The answer is, not much, at least in my case. The majority of these stories are complete works of fiction, and even the ones that are based on real events or real people have been changed in some way. Tom is not Mike. Nor is he always the same Tom. (Although the fictional Mr. Caffrey, like his inspiration, tends to be dark-haired and hairy-chested, he has occasionally gone blond and shaved himself smooth when the plot has required it.) And the Mikes in the stories aren’t me, either. The fact is, there are only a handful of good porn names—Mike, Jack, Scott, Jake—and they all get used here, much as they get circulated among every new generation of porn stars. So please, don’t read too much into these. Just enjoy them.

It’s the heat that wakes me up, sticky wet ribbons that flutter at my face and trouble my dreams until I rise up out of them into semiconsciousness. The night is uncommonly hot, simmering with the kind of heat that arrives only in the last days of summer when the fading season closes in and holds the city close in its grasp, refusing to let go. My hair is wet against my neck and my throat burns with thirst as I fumble for the glass of water on my bedside table. The rattling electric fan next to my bed provides only the slightest of breezes, and it has been barely three hours since I fell into a fitful sleep. Outside it is oddly silent, the usual summertime noises of sirens and sidewalk chatter absent.

The sheets are soaked with sweat and wrap around me like the thin walls of a cocoon. I feel like a dead man trapped in a shroud and kick them off anxiously so that they fall onto the floor and I am lying naked on my bed. The room is only half-dark, the strange pale shine that always seems to rise from the city at night pouring in my curtainless window and filling it with a gloom that settles over everything like mist. I can see the outline of my body clearly, while the details are dim, the feet and hands disappearing in shadow. I have a hard-on, and it presses painfully against my belly as if it is too full of blood and my nuts are sore with the ache of holding too much cum. For some unknown reason I want terribly to jerk off, to feel the thick length of my cock slip beneath my fingers and then the shudder in my hand as my cum spatters across my belly.

My hands move in and out of the pools of light as I run them over my chest lightly from my hips to my throat, shivering at the touch of my own fingers on my flushed skin, my breath drawing in sharply when I twist my tender nipples. Lifting my arm behind my head, I turn my face and press my nose into the wet patch of hair there. The smell is familiar and arousing, and my tongue slides lazily along the skin, soaking up the bitter taste and feeling the heavy muscle of my bicep rise and fall against my cheek.

My hand wanders down my stomach to trace the curve of my balls and thighs while I think about the many rooms in the city around me where men are making love to one another, their bodies slick with sweat as they wrap each other in their arms and their mouths meet, tongues slipping between soft lips and hard teeth. The heat moves around me as my fingers caress my nuts like a lover’s lips, gently tugging and releasing. Drawing my feet up I spread my knees and my hand slips into the crack of my ass, the hair there damp with sweat as I finger my hole roughly, my wrist pressed tightly against my cock and ballsac as I imagine some unknown man sliding his prick deep inside me as my legs press against his sides.

Before I can begin to stroke my prick, I hear a car turn down my street. Not an unusual occurrence by any means, but this one stops outside my building and the motor turns off. I hear a car door open, but do not hear it close. I close my eyes and try to jerk myself off, but my mind races from one image to another too quickly and I am not able to concentrate on any one long enough to bring myself off. Several times I feel the familiar rumbling in my groin begin to well up, only to have it recede back into stillness. Frustrated, I give up and lie back against the pillows. My prick lies against my skin, hard and unsatisfied.

Rising from my bed, I go to the window and look out past the iron boundaries of my fourth-floor fire escape. At this hour the street is deserted, empty even of the usual inhabitants who come out after the rest of the world has gone to sleep to resume whatever business they are forced to end with the first shimmers of sunrise. A quiet babble of muted voices floats over the rooftops, and I think that probably they too have been driven by the heat into the cooler shadows of the park in the next block, where they can sit with their feet in the fountain while they reinvent their pasts for one another and anyone who will listen. Other than the rustle of their conversations, the city is dead.

The car is parked directly under my window, its front half submerged in the pool of light created by the streetlight, the rear swallowed up in darkness. It is a big beast of a car, the kind driven by boys who learned at an early age how to service its engine themselves. The drivers of these cars are very often found in small towns where life is played out in factories and local pool halls, the supporting roles being assumed by girls with teased hair and red-lipsticked mouths who willingly give in to the men whose rough, grease-stained hands caress them in backseats on Saturday nights.

My sister’s first boyfriend had a car very much like this one. He would roar up to the house after his shift on the construction crew ended and she would run out, laughing as she bent in the window to kiss him. On warm nights he would bring the hose from around back and spend an hour or two washing his prize, Led Zeppelin blaring from the 8-track tape deck as he lovingly went over the shiny metal skin from top to bottom while my sister sat in the grass painting her nails. I would stand behind the curtains and watch him, mesmerized by the way the thick muscles of his shirtless chest and arms moved as he worked the sponge over the black paint. Once, when it was very hot and he was wearing only his boxer shorts, my sister turned the hose on him, soaking him so that the material clung to him and I could see the shadow of his bush and the outline of his cock as he chased after her. That night I jerked off into my hand, thinking about what I’d seen while I listened to the sound of his voice coming through the screen door from where they sat on the steps talking.

The car door on the driver’s side is open, and a young man is sitting with his feet resting on the sidewalk while the rest of him remains inside the car. Another man is sitting on the sidewalk itself, his knees drawn up in front of him. He is holding a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette that sends threads of smoke into the air. While the face of the man in the car is hidden in shadow, I see that he is wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and heavy work boots. The man seated on the sidewalk is dressed similarly in jeans and a white T-shirt, although he is wearing black motorcycle boots. He is dark haired, and his arms are well developed. I imagine him working in a warehouse, his hands encased in thick gloves as he carries boxes from one place to another, never thinking about what might be in them as his mind looks ahead to the time when he can fuck his girlfriend again.

“I can’t believe we drove all over looking for those stupid bitches,” he says, his voice low. “Wasted all damn night and they’re probably sitting somewhere wondering why we never showed.”

“Don’t really matter,” says the man inside the car. His accent is heavy with the flatness of someone who has spent a lot of time in southern New Jersey. It is a sound I hear often on the streets of my neighborhood on the weekends, when carloads of young men like this one come in to spend their paychecks in the local bars. “We got beer. We got the night to ourselves. Might as well enjoy it.”

They drink in silence for a quarter of an hour, the sidewalk sitter’s cigarette glowing hotly as he inhales and blows clouds of smoke like an offering skyward. I feel strangely guilty watching them, as if I am some intruding spirit spying on them from the heavens. But the scene is oddly entrancing, both because it is unexpected and because it is out of place here on my empty street so late at night, and I stay where I am. I am surprised to find that my cock is still hard, and I stroke it idly while I watch the two men sit in the stillness. Then the man inside the car speaks.

“It’s too fucking hot,” he says. “I’m sweating like a bitch here.” He pulls his shirt over his head in one quick movement and tosses it into the backseat of the car. Framed by the doorway, his chest is broad and powerfully muscled, his nipples large and his torso tapered at the waist. It is the body of a man who has spent many hours at the gym. His pecs are two fleshy mountains, and his abdomen is striped with lines of muscle. There is no hair anywhere on him, and his smooth flesh shines warmly.

“That’s better,” he says, stretching back on the seat so that all I can see is his flat stomach and what is below it, the large soft bulge in his jeans. He runs his beer bottle over his skin, leaving a wet trail, and lets it rest between his legs.

“It’s too bad we didn’t meet up with those two,” he says, grabbing teasingly at his crotch. “My cock could use a little action right about now.”

His friend takes a long swallow of beer, emptying his second bottle. “Use your hand when you get home,” he says, standing up and unzipping his pants. “It’ll do the job just fine and you don’t have to buy it a drink or pretend you like its perfume.” He moves away into the shadows and I hear the gentle pounding of piss hitting the ground.

“Can’t wait that long,” the man says. He sits up and fumbles at the fly of his pants, his fingers awkwardly pulling the buttons apart. When they are undone, he pushes his pants down until they are just above his knees. His half-hard cock, long and fat, lies across his thigh. I can see the clipped bush around its base and the heavy sac that rests on the seat between his legs.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” his friend says when he turns and sees what is happening. “Someone’s gonna see you.”

The man laughs. “They’re all asleep. Besides, what do you care?”

He grips his prick lightly in his fist and begins to stroke it slowly. After a minute it stiffens in his fingers and stretches out to its full length, the wide head resting on his stomach somewhere an inch or two above his navel. He pushes his pants down farther so that he can spread his legs wider and starts to jerk off in earnest, his hand sliding along the shaft in easy rhythm.

The man on the street, perhaps made more bold by the alcohol he has been drinking steadily, laughs nervously as he watches. “You are one crazy fucker,” he says.

The man in the car continues to play with his cock, stroking it harder now and holding it in his fist so that it stands straight up from his groin. “Why don’t you give me a hand here,” he says. “Feels pretty hot.”

“Fuck you,” comes the answer. “I ain’t playing with no guy’s dick.”

“Why not?” the man taunts. “Bet you’d be pretty good at it seeing all the practice you get with your own.”

The man on the street starts to protest, then stops suddenly. Putting down his beer, he crosses the few feet to the car, stopping when he is in front of the door. He kneels between his friend’s legs, one large booted foot on either side of him. Trying not to look his friend in the face, he puts a hand on each knee, his hands gripping them lightly.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the man growls. “Help me out a little bit like a good buddy.”

A hand moves up to touch one bare thigh, hesitating momentarily as the fingers move from the rough blue jeans to the smooth feeling of flesh on flesh. He continues on until he reaches the base of the cock, his fingers closing around the thick shaft. As he does, the man stops playing with himself and lets his friend take over, putting his hands behind his head as the other man begins to stroke him in hesitant movements, fisting the unfamiliar prick.

“Just like playing with yourself,” the man in the car says. “Do it just like you was doing your own dick.”

With this new turn of events, I want to get a closer look. Climbing onto the windowsill, I crawl out onto my fire escape, making as little noise as possible. The night air surrounds my naked, sweating body as I sit on the stairs going up to the next floor and position myself so that I can see what is going on below me. The metal of the stairs is warm and presses roughly against my ass and the bottoms of my feet. The two men have not heard or seen me, and I have a perfect view of the car and what is happening in it. I look into the black face of the windows across the street and pray that no one turns on a light.

The man on the ground is stroking the big cock in his hand more smoothly now, running from the base to the heavy crown and wrapping his fingers around the head. His other hand is exploring the man’s stomach and chest, feeling the hardness of the muscles. When the man puts a hand on his head and pushes him down, he stops his hand motions and begins to lick the fat balls that sit in front of his face. I see the back of his head move in slow circles as he runs his tongue over the warm folds of skin that hold the ripe fruit. I imagine what it must be like for him, tasting his friend’s balls for the first time, so solid against his tongue, so warm in his mouth. I rub my own nuts as I watch him, stretching them out in my fingers and letting them fall back and swing below me.

The man inside the car jerks on the head of his tool as his nuts are sucked, every so often gripping his cock tightly and slapping it against his belly, the soft thuds barely audible four stories above. Louder are his groans, which roll from his throat like raw silk and fill my ears with their sound. After a few minutes he puts one huge hand on the other man’s neck, his wide fingers pale against the dark hair, and draws him up. Pressing his lips against the solid shaft he says, “Suck my big cock.”

The kneeling man’s head rises up momentarily as he takes the other’s dick between his lips. He slides down the fat tool slowly; it is obviously his first time with another man’s prick in his mouth. His movements are awkward at first as he learns quickly how to breathe with so much flesh in his throat. But soon he is sucking on the big crank, his back and shoulders moving in rhythmic waves as he moves up and down, his hand following behind his lips as he works more and more of the thick shaft into his mouth.

Watching him blow his hunky friend, I stroke my own cock in much the same way, my fingers miming the motions of his mouth. Now I am even hornier than when I woke up, and every touch of my fingers on my dick brings aching tendrils shooting up from deep inside me. My skin is rivered with sweat from the heat, and I can feel it rolling down my sides in tiny drops, dried by the occasional breath of wind on my body. I feel myself getting closer and closer, but I don’t want to come yet, not before I see what the studs below me are going to do, how it will all end. I have a feeling it isn’t over yet and hold off my own need as I wait to see what comes next in their after-hours scenario.

The man in the car is gripping the other one’s neck firmly with both hands, pushing him down and then releasing him. I can tell he is going to come by the way his hips rise off of the seat as he drives his cock into the teasing lips. When the man on the ground tries to pull away, I know that he is shooting deep in his throat. He holds the man’s head in place until he is spent, only letting him go when his climax has ended. The man on the ground turns his head to the side. He has not been able to swallow all of the man’s load, and a string of cum slides from his mouth to the street. It hangs from his lips in a thick thread, swaying slightly before falling away. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

He stands up and steps away from the car, reaching for a bottle of beer to wash away the taste in his mouth. The man inside slides out, following him, and for the first time I see his face. He is very handsome. Not pretty like the men I see in the bars or in the fashionable parts of town, but rugged and somehow more real, more alive. His neck is thick, his jaw wide, and his whole body moves with masculine strength. His nose is slightly crooked, as though it has been broken in a long-ago game of football or during a brawl with another man over a lost bet in some dark bar. His hair is shaved so close to the skin that it forms a halo around his head under the streetlight.

Bending down, he unties his boots and pulls them off, following them with his pants. He stands barefoot and naked on the sidewalk beside the car. His body is bathed in light, and his still-erect cock stands out as he raises his hands and stretches them over his head. He reminds me of an animal, confident in both his power and in his complete control over his surroundings. I freeze, afraid that he will look up and see me watching him. But although he pauses for a moment, he does not turn around.

“Now you,” he says to the other man, who is leaning against the car watching him. “Strip.” It is a command, not a request.

When the other man does not move quickly enough, he steps in to help, tugging his shirt from his pants and pulling it over his head. Not as muscular as that of his friend, the dark-haired man’s body is still remarkable. As his T-shirt slips over his head, I see two patches of hair beneath his arms, the only dark spots on his otherwise smooth body. His jeans are the next to go, dropping to the ground to reveal a short, fat cock already hard. His crotch looks as though it has been shaved clean, as do his balls.

The bigger man grabs the prick before him and begins to jerk on it roughly. “Nice piece you got here,” he says, fingering the hairless balls.

Dropping to his knees, he starts to suck the other man’s dick while playing with his own cock, which throws a long shadow over the pale surface of the sidewalk. He works expertly, moving his mouth from the shaft to the balls beneath, his face buried between the spread legs. After a minute, the standing man places his hands on the wide shoulders below him, his fingers kneading the thick muscles, his prick slipping in and out of the man’s mouth smoothly and evenly as he gets serviced.

I no longer care if anyone is watching me or not. My hand glides rapidly along my dick, squeezing thin strands of precum from the head as I take in the scene below. My arm aches from the repeated motions, and I can feel the skin on my cock turning raw, but I don’t stop. I spit into my hand and use this to grease my shaft, cooling the searing heat somewhat. My back is pressed so tightly against the stairs that the metal has started to bite into the skin.

The big man stands up and takes his buddy by the arm, maneuvering him so that he is standing in the ring of light. He pushes the other man against the front of the car so that he is lying with his arms splayed out over the hood, his legs spread behind him. He pushes the waiting ass cheeks apart with his big hands and plunges one long finger straight into the hole at their center. The man on the car bucks slightly as the finger tears into him, pushing back against his invader, who shoves him roughly down until he is still. Sliding his finger in and out, he loosens the tight ring of muscle until the man beneath him is rocking back and forth on his hand easily.

Pulling his finger out, he positions the head of his cock between the man’s cheeks and pushes forward, driving into him in one swift thrust. I can see the man’s face grimace in pain as his chute is filled with his buddy’s prick. Then the lines of his mouth slide slowly into relaxation as pleasure wraps its shining arms about him. As the man behind him starts to fuck him in slow strokes, he rubs his hands over the smooth metal of the car’s hood as though it were the skin of his lover’s back.

The man pumps the ass beneath him in ever-increasing movements, the shadows cast on his naked skin from the surrounding buildings trembling like leaves in the wind as they stretch and tense with his motions. I can see clearly his long cock as it pistons rapidly in and out of the smooth mounds as he enters and retreats. His hands grip his friend’s waist tightly and the muscles of his ass dimple and fill in again as he thrusts harder and harder.

My hand moves over my prick swiftly as I watch them fuck. Spreading my legs, I slide my finger into my hole as far as it will go, massaging the opening as I imagine the man’s cock pounding my chute. Bringing it to my lips, I smell the musky scent of my ass and pretend that it is his. I slip the finger into my mouth and suck slowly and hungrily as I continue to pound my tool in time with the men who have made me so excited. I am getting very close and hope I can hold out until the end.

The man getting fucked is running his face over the car’s surface, his tongue licking at the metal. He puts his hands under him and tries to push away, to reach his own dick and give it some relief, but he can’t. His hands reach up and grasp at the glass of the windshield as he writhes against the hood, pinned there by the weight of the larger man and the force of his hammering cock. Finally the man pulls back, allowing his captive to stand while still driving his prong into the tight ass. The dark-haired man’s cock bobs free as his body is rocked by the motion. He grabs hold of it and fists it wildly, his balls slapping madly beneath his hand as he rushes to bring the action to its conclusion.

Leaning back, he rests his head on the other man’s shoulder as he comes. A long arc of white blasts from his prick and scatters over the hood. His arm continues its pumping motions as wave after wave spurts into the air. Then he is pushed forward and collapses on top of the car as the other man pulls out and jerks himself the rest of the way. Standing with his legs spread, he thrusts his hips forward and cranks his meat in short, quick strokes until he too sends a gush of jism into the night. The thick spray flashes momentarily in the lights before raining down on the prostrate form of the man on the hood.

Having lasted to the end, I finally allow myself the release I have craved since waking. My balls tighten as I finish th