Author: Michael Thomas Ford
Category: LGBT
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The man ran one big finger down my body from the hollow of my neck to my groin, leaving in its wake a searing heat that soaked into my skin. He gently pinched my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and my tit rose into his hand as it swelled with a sweet ache, crying out for more. But he released it and, taking my hand, led me toward a platform near the fire. The satyr and a group of men followed, closing behind us like waves rolling over stones.
When he reached the platform, the man picked me up and placed me on it, pulling himself up beside me. Stretching his long body out on some pillows, he leaned back, spreading his legs invitingly. His prick had filled with his heat and lay against his belly. He looked at me expectantly, and I crawled between his legs until I was hovering over his cock.
He put one hand behind my head and pulled me down to his waiting dick, rubbing my face roughly along his shaft and down into his balls, then back up again to the very tip. Opening my lips as wide as I could, I managed to fit the head into my mouth, amazed that I could suck it without choking. My tongue washed all over the globe of his prick, licking up the delicious syrup that slipped from between the thick lips of his cockhead. Slowly I pushed a few more inches of his delicious meat into my throat, feeling my muscles protest as they stretched to new limits. Streams of spit slipped from my mouth, and I used it to grease the length of shaft still beyond my lips, my fingers carrying it up and down the inches of flesh in slow motions that allowed me to feel every ridge of the mighty prick in my hand.
Releasing his prong from my mouth, I began to travel down his dick, tracing the throbbing vein under his shaft with the tip of my tongue. Reaching his balls, I kissed the silky folds of his sac, feeling the heavy fruit inside tumble and fall over my lips as I feasted on them hungrily. The skin of his thighs rubbing on my cheeks was like velvet, and I rubbed eagerly against him, pressing his balls into my face and stroking his beating cock. As I milked his prick, streams of sticky juice flowed over my fingers and down my arm. I licked it up, letting the sweet fluid roll down my throat like water, quenching my thirst with his honey.
Again I sensed a wave of pure pleasure enfold my body. Feeling all control flood out of me, I began to lick and suck wildly, wanting to taste every inch of his magnificent body, breathing his man scent into my lungs. I lay on top of the reclining giant, my mouth flying over his stomach and up to his nipples, taking them in between my lips and exploring their hardness. I sank my tongue into his armpits, washing them clean, and sucked at his fingers when he touched my face as if they were extensions of his cock.
Returning to his prick, I licked at his thighs, following the muscles of his legs down to his feet and back up again. My tongue explored the secret pathway beneath his balls, finding its way into the cavern of his ass. Lunging against his meaty buttocks, I buried my nose in his crack, searching for the hot, pulsing center that lay buried there. Wetting my lips, I slid easily into his hole, twisting my face slowly and slurping greedily at his tasty opening.
As I ate out his ass, I felt his hands on my neck, pushing me farther and farther into him. My own cock was beating against the stone of the platform, my balls aching from the need that pulsed in them like a heartbeat. I wanted to jerk off furiously, but couldn’t take my hands away from the strong thighs that surrounded my face.
Suddenly there were fingers wrapped in my hair, and I was pulled unwillingly away from my banquet. Once again I heard the familiar roaring in my head and looked around. From the top of the platform I had a view of the entire temple. The whole floor was a knot of writhing bodies. Cocks were flying in and out of mouths and assholes as the men they belonged to delighted in one another’s bodies. All around me rivers of cum flowed over sweating chests and burning lips that sucked it in, then passed it to other mouths in long, deep kisses.
I started to turn but was pushed onto my hands and knees. I felt the big man move behind me, spreading my legs with his thighs as he took up position. His cock fell onto my back and slipped down into my ass crack, slicing the halves of my butt with its thickness. Slowly he rubbed against me, his hands pressing down on my back as he moved back and forth. I wanted to have his prick inside me, even though I knew it would probably rip me to pieces. Something primeval within me called out for his manhood, begging him to fill me.
As I imagined being taken by this strange man, I felt the tip of his prick push against the opening of my chute. My ass ring tightened, resisting, then he shoved roughly and was through, his crank pounding into my insides like a lightning bolt. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out as the breath was knocked from me. As inch after inch poured into my ass, I moaned in agony, the pain turning into ribbons of pure ecstasy rolling over my bones and wrapping around my heart. I couldn’t believe I was taking such a big tool into my chute, but on and on it came, stretching me with its thickness until I felt his taut stomach pressed against my hungry cheeks. When he pulled out, I felt the absence of his prick and cried out for it to return until it was once more buried in my bowels and I felt whole again. The man’s hands grasped my shoulders tightly, pulling me against his hips as he tore into me repeatedly, his chest pounding my back as his balls slapped my thighs.
As he fucked me the man made no sound, silently bearing down on me with his weight, driving his cock into my gasping hole. My whole body was rocked with the forceful motions of the dick in my ass, and as my head bobbed up and down I caught glimpses of the men in the temple, snatches of bodies moving in and out of focus. Excitement turned to frenzy as the moans from the floor rose up, surrounding my head with a roar like a thunderstorm. My body was a sponge, soaking in the lust that streamed from the bodies making love, turning me drunk with pleasure.
I wanted it to go on forever, to sail on the rush of pain and pleasure in and out of days. But I knew that if I rode the wave too long I might not come back from where it took me. Already I could feel my mind slipping away from me, dizzy with the exquisite pain that held my body in its grip. I pushed back on the prong burrowing in my insides, squeezing my ass muscles tightly around it, drawing it farther in. I felt the man speed up his wordless thrusting. At the same time, I felt my own balls tighten in anticipation.
Falling against me, the big man gave a final shove, driving his cock up and inside me until I thought it would pierce my heart and come out my chest. He shuddered, and his load spilled into me as if a dam had burst. Gush after gush of spunk filled my bowels as his balls gave up their juice to my sucking chute. I felt it stream deep into my belly, then run back out my choking asshole like the tide leaving the beach, coating my legs with thick waves as he continued to pump me while he came.
At the same time, the roar in my head turned into a primal howl, roaring out of my throat and filling the temple with its raw power. My own cock spurted an arc of cum through the air, hitting me in the face as I bowed my head. My load splattered against my cheeks and dripped from my lips as I tried to lap it up.
Unable to keep a hold on the emotions sweeping through me, I collapsed on the platform, and the big man’s prick slipped out of my ass. I felt tongues begin to wash my body as men licked eagerly at the thick cum that dripped from my empty hole and trickled down my legs. I shut my eyes, waiting for my head to clear.
When I opened them again, the temple was empty. A thin, pale light was peeking in around the columns, and a light breeze grazed my skin with gentle fingers. I was alone on the bare platform, which was now covered in moss and crisscrossed by cracks. Getting up, I stretched, feeling strangely alive and filled with energy.
I couldn’t remember how I had gotten to the temple or what had happened there, but the dull ache in my ass reminded me of at least part of what had gone on. I cursed myself for having drunk so much that I couldn’t even remember who had fucked me. My jeans were lying on the floor below the platform, and I slipped them on, hoping I could get back to the village without meeting anyone.
I turned to leave the temple, and for the first time noticed a statue sitting at one end. Walking over to it, I l
ooked into the face of the big man who had filled me so completely the night before, the warm flesh now cold, unfeeling stone. In a rush, everything of the night before came back to me, a jumble of sounds and smells, sensations and tastes. As I gazed at the beautiful marble, I searched for some clue to who the man was, but found none.
Finally, I wandered out of the temple and down the steps into the time between dawn and morning. Coming up the hill was a boy, a herd of black and white speckled goats behind him. He did not seem surprised to see me there with no shirt or shoes.
“Good morning,” he said. “I see you have been a guest at the house of Zeus.”
I looked at him, trying to figure out why he seemed so familiar, where I might have seen his ruddy face.
“Zeus,” I said. “As in king of the gods?”
The boy smiled, his white teeth breaking out from behind his red lips. “Yes, I hear he is a very good host. Especially on Bacchanal.”
He turned and headed toward the hills, his goats following. As he walked away, I caught a glimpse of the two small horns almost hidden by his curly hair. I started to call out, but he had disappeared around a bend, leaving me standing on the hilltop as the awakening sun washed away the last of the night’s shadows.
The Burning of Leaves
A short meditation on the nature of desire and being desired.
Every November, just before he thought the snow was coming, my father and I would gather up the leaves scattered over the farm by the old maple trees. Very methodically, we went to each tree, scooping the fallen leaves up in gloved hands. We stuffed them into bags and carried them behind the barn, where we piled them in the old stone fireplace.
My father would make a hollow in the pile of leaves, pushing them into a bowl-like shape. Into this bowl he would put a large pinecone. Then he would take a match out of his jacket pocket and, in that way known to all farmers but kept a secret from the rest of the world, strike it against his fingernail and bring it to life.
Once the match was lit, he cupped it in his hands and knelt by the pile. Touching the match to the pinecone, he would blow softly, encouraging the small fire to take hold. When the pinecone was burning, he carefully placed leaves over it, until the hollow was once again filled in, the pinecone slowly smoldering at its center.
Because pinecones burn very slowly, it took a long time for the fire to work its magic. I could see the smoke crawling out through the spaces in between the leaves and rolling along the ground under the colder air. But the flame itself was invisible.
Still, I knew it was there, slowly burning its way through the pile from the inside, growing in intensity and fury. I waited for that moment I knew would come when, unable to remain beneath its paper-thin yellow-and-brown skin any longer, the fire would roar upward, sending a wave of heat flowing over my face, the remaining leaves collapsing at last into the fire’s heart.
When this happened, I would stare into the very center of the fire, not caring that the heat was burning my skin or that the smoke was stinging my eyes. I thought that if I looked hard enough I might see what the fire had revealed, the part of the leaves that couldn’t be burned away, the thing that made them alive.
Many years later, the fall has come again, and the time for the burning of leaves.
When he touches me, I sense the match being struck against my skin, feel the flame spark up and take hold of the edges. As his hands move over me they burn gently, pulling at the first layer of what I have worked so hard to build up. I am surprised at how easily he can make the years fall away, at the strength of his fingers as they strip away the time I have spent avoiding this moment. Although I don’t want to, I touch him, shivering when I realize that I am going to let him do this to me.
His mouth against mine is soft, and there is power behind it. Kissing me, he breathes heat beneath the quiet, cold flame that has been sleeping within me. Awakened, it stirs uneasily in its nest, stretching lazily as it grows stronger. Along with his breath, the fire slips inside my mind and I no longer remember how to get away from him, no longer want to.
Despite the mind-numbing veil of heat I remember that I am playing with fire. Even as his arms encircle me and he pulls me in deeper, I hear my father’s warnings about lighting matches, about the terrible consequences of being too careless. I wonder if this man knows what it is he is doing, or if he even cares. For a moment the fire is pushed back as I am surrounded by the fear that what is happening has not been created by the two of us, that it is, for him, nothing more than a continuation or remembrance of something he has begun in another place with another man. I hold him with my eyes closed, afraid that seeing his face will reveal that he is making love to someone else.
It takes some time to rid myself of this ghost, and it never does go away completely. Still, he is able to close my thoughts off enough to bring me back to where he is, enough to make me want what he is offering me to be the only thing that matters. I cannot see his eyes in the dark, but I listen to what his hands are saying, and I choose to believe them.
Unleashed once more, the flame reaches out, its strength increased by having been kept at bay. I can feel it gripping my heart. It throbs steadily and hungrily, filling me with heat that pushes at my skin from the inside, rolls over my bones in waves. I find myself wondering if he can feel it, too, where his body lies against mine.
I want to pull him down into my body, down through skin and bone and muscle, so that he can know what he has done, so that he can taste the burning ache that he has put there. I want to take his fire into me, feel it rage wildly through me and roar out through my skin, tearing away everything I have buried inside me in a blinding wave of heat and light. His breathing sounds in my head like wind howling through bare branches, blocking out whatever I am thinking. I try to match the rhythm of his heartbeat, try to feel the blood moving through his veins and become part of it.
As he enters me, the fire stirs restlessly. It has waited patiently for too long. The carefully constructed walls that I have used to keep him out begin to tremble as their supports are burned away. For a moment I am terribly afraid, afraid that he will burn away everything I am and leave me with nothing, afraid that I have played a deadly game and lost.
Then the walls begin to collapse. They crash madly through one another, falling away and disappearing into the white-hot center where the fire has been waiting patiently all this time to consume them. The last barrier gone, the flame rushes through what remains of my defenses, and I no longer care what it leaves in its wake because I know that it has cleansed me. It rises up through my skin in a final storm of heat, pouring out and washing the face of the little boy watching the leaves burn.
Through the flames I see him looking down into me, searching for what the burning has revealed.
Riding the Rails
I used to live outside of New York and commute into the city by train every day. The ride home always provided time for idle thought, and the presence of a particularly hunky conductor one afternoon was the seed for this story.
The 5:17 train was about to leave when I reached my gate, the buzzer that sounded departure echoing loudly through the empty station. Cursing my client for calling the last-minute meeting that made me late, I put on a burst of speed. I just managed to slip into the last car by putting my briefcase in between the closing doors. There was going to be a nice scuff mark on the leather, but at least I wouldn’t have to wait another hour for the next train out.
Since I’d started working for a law firm in the city six months ago, the train had become a regular part of my life. I still wasn’t used to getting up half an hour earlier in the morning to catch the incoming to the city, and more than once I’d had to leave some hot number standing in a bar to catch the last express home. But despite the dent it was putting in my social life, the long ride was good for getting work done, and I did enjoy leaving the city behind me after a long day.
The train was packed, stuffed to overflowing with business types anxious to get back to th
e suburbs and forget the day’s aggravations. Some had stacks of paperwork or laptop computers spread out, trying to finish up whatever they’d left undone before leaving the office for the day. Others were trying to relax, reading newspapers or paperback thrillers. I counted at least seven people reading the latest John Grisham novel as I looked for a seat.
There was only one empty seat, in one of the sections where two rows faced one another to form a square. Usually these were taken up by groups of guys playing cards on the way home, but not today. An older man was sitting in the aisle seat, and two young women sat across from him. Mumbling my apologies, I squeezed past them into the window seat.
As usual, the air-conditioning was on the blink, and the train was hot as hell. Luckily, the windows opened, letting in some air. I leaned back and loosened the collar of my shirt. My station was the last stop on the train, and it was going to be at least an hour and a half until the train got there. If I was lucky, I might be able to get some sleep.
The train was creeping along the elevated tracks that stretch out of the city, and the steady humming of the engine was putting me to sleep when a booming voice startled me awake. “Tickets, please. Have your tickets ready.” The conductor had entered the car, making his rounds to check the commuting passes. I fished in my shirt pocket for the blue monthly ticket I’d just gotten in the mail. I knew from experience what pricks the conductors could be if you weren’t ready the minute they came by.
The conductor was making his way through the car, repeating the familiar “tickets, please” every few feet like clockwork. A couple of times I heard him giving instructions to people who needed to transfer, punching their tickets and barking out answers to their questions like a drill sergeant. Since my seat was almost all the way in back, it took a while for him to reach me. When I heard him say “ticket, please” I looked up, directly into a pair of beautiful blue eyes and a ruggedly handsome face. What I could see of his hair under his uniform hat was dark blond and cut short, and he had a mustache.