The Decorator

The Decorator lives in an unassuming two-story house on a street close to mine. One might even call it part of my neighborhood. It’s a typical suburban avenue where the houses are neatly kept and the lawns clipped close. But oh, whenever I open that unlocked front door, I can’t help but blink in wonder at the extravagance within.

I’ve known the Decorator for a year and have never been able to elicit from him what he does for a living. It was only when I commented in an email about how much like a spread in Architectural Digest was the inside of his house that he admitted he did something creative. Something creative that pays a hell of a lot more than my creative efforts, I’m guessing, because the least of his furniture is nicer and more expensive than the best of mine. Upon entering the house, I step upon hardwood floors, stained and waxed in a deep shade of mahogany. A vast dining table surrounded by eight richly-upholstered chairs sits just within. In its center is planted a tall ceramic art vase, from which project cut iris. Down the hallway I can spy the living room, with its expensive sofas of dark wood and rich upholstery. I lock the door behind me, and walk further inside.

A massive slab of ancient stone hangs on the wall at the foot of the stairwell, its surface raised by the imprint of a fossilized fern. I know the way to the Decorator’s bedroom from long practice. Up the stairs I pad until I reach the door of his bedroom. His oversized, sumptuously decorated bedroom. One of the walls is decorated with framed, stark, black-and-white photography. Opposite hangs a large oil painting. Another original canvas executed in oils sits atop the expansive dresser next to a series of nesting carved Japanese wooden boxes, leaning against the wall. A tasteful charcoal sketch of a half-nude male body hangs next to the door leading to the master bathroom.

In a massive bed dressed with sheets having a thread count double anything I own, face down among the dozen pillows, lies the Decorator. He’s naked, his legs spread, with his head resting on his arms and turned away. And he’s all alone.

“Oh, yes,” I hiss in the quiet. My fingers reach for the fabric of my belt. The buckle clinks as I undo it, and then rattle again as my shorts drop to the floor. I kick off my sandals and stalk over to the bed, where I kneel on the mattress’s edge. “I have missed this.”

The Decorator and I used to see each other regularly. Last summer through the fall we were meeting on almost a weekly basis. Then around the holidays, our schedules seemed not to synch. He was out of town for long periods of time. Or I was unavailable. Or he was up north at his cottage. Or I was on a deadline. After a few frustrating months, we both stopped trying. When he wrote me this week and asked if I was available at all, I told him he could have any evening at all and that I’d find some way to be with him.

Thursday night, I'm in no hurry. I have plenty of time. I hook my arms under and around his pelvis to draw his hole to my mouth. The Decorator always tastes sweet. He’s recently shaved his butt, so that when I lick his beautiful, round ass cheeks, my tongue rakes against the sharp tingle of stubble. He squirms in my grasp, and I dig deeper with my tongue until I’m rewarded with the sharp, almost metallic taste of the innermost regions of his hole.

For several long minutes I eat away at him, licking and sucking and biting and rubbing my beard over the little hole he’s so willingly exposing. In return, all I get are the tiniest of whimpers. The Decorator rarely speaks when we make love. He’s responsive, but it’s in the smallest of cues. When I eat him out, he whimpers, and breathes heavily. He’s clutching a pillow now, his little hands balled up into fists as he buries his face in it. His body shudders and twitches when I blow onto the wetness, cooling it down before I bury my face once again between his cheeks.

The Decorator is a small man—almost a full foot shorter than I. He’s lightly muscular in all the right places and has a trim, narrow waist. Though he’s in his late thirties and his hair is almost all gray with a mix of blond, he still has the face and appearance of a boy. I’ve not seen his face at all, this night. Not until I stand up and walk around to the other side of the bed. I lower the elastic band of my black trunks with my thumb, just slightly, to expose a sliver of my furry stomach. He raises his head and scoots forward, hungry. His eyes have been closed until now. Even open, they’re still small horizontal slits through which his small blue eyes peer at the bulge before him. His hands reach out and tug down my shorts; he pulls me forward so that his mouth can accept my inches.

For a long time I stand there and let his mouth and fingertips dance over my shaft and balls. After a few moments I kick off my shorts and ease myself down onto the mattress. We adjust ourselves so that I’m sitting upright, supported by the pyramid of pillows like some luxuriating pharaoh. He’s pharaoh’s servant, worshipping at the wellspring of all creation. “That’s it,” I whisper to him, running my hands through his short, thick hair. It’s still damp from the shower he took before I arrived. “Suck it. Slobber on that dick. Make me feel good.” The words spur him to do better, to suck deeper, to lick and swirl his tongue in ways he hadn’t before. “Let me know how much you love that dick.”

Spit’s dripping down my shaft now and tickling my balls as it falls. He’s grunting and whimpering a little whenever he impales his throat with my cock head. Eventually he comes up for air, gasping, and looks at me to see if I’m pleased. There are crinkles of distress at the corners of his eyes, and his brow is furrowed as if he’s genuinely worried.

“Good boy,” I whisper. I put one hand under his chin and draw him up, all one hundred and thirty-five pounds of him, until he’s draped across my chest. Our mouths meet for the first time. His lips are soft and slight, like a woman’s. When I kiss him, his muscles relax. He melts into me, becoming limp. When I drive my tongue deep, his bones seem to disintegrate. He slackens, and becomes heavy.

But I’m not finished with his ass yet. For a few more long minutes I slurp and lick at it, getting it ready. Nothing gets me harder and more prepared to fuck than eating a beautiful hole. We’re forty-five minutes into our session, and by this point I’ve left dark wet spots of precum all over the sheets. My dick is raging hard, red, and almost angry. It’s time.

I maneuver him onto the towel he’s set down, and spit on my dick. When my head presses against his hole, he murmurs wordless noises. My entry is slow and deliberate, and meets with no resistance, but his arms tense and claw at the sheets. He cries out and clutches. When I’m all the way in, he whines like an injured dog. “Are you good?” I ask him. I’m pretty sure he is, but I don’t want him in pain. I’ve pulled out slightly, with my question, but he nods furiously and grabs behind himself at my hips, pulling me deep inside once more.

Slowly I work myself in and out, in and out. With every new sensation he mewls and shivers. I’m hugging him around his shoulders, and he’s clutching at my hands with his, entwining our fingers so that we can be as interwoven together as humanly possible. Even his toes are trying to grasp mine. Still I keep up the thrusting and the grinding, moving from a slow and steady pace to one that’s more deliberate and even anxious, or eager. His butt quivers with every thrust. I’m driving in faster now. My strokes are longer, and fiercer. We’ve been making love, but now he’s getting fucked—he’s getting banged, and he’s loving it. The tiny whines have become a steady bleat. He sounds as if he’s in pain, but he’s not; he’s merely frightened of it stopping.

“I’m coming,” I whisper in his ear. The flood begins. For seconds I’m nothing but cock, pulsing and red and spewing out my two-day load. The bleat has become a moan, loud and unending, lasting the entire time I’m breeding him. The red tide recedes, and I’m regaining my senses. His neck cranes, and I find his lips on mine, pulling at mine hungrily.

I roll onto my side, remaining inside him. His shoulders and back rest on the pillows as if he’s lying down, but the lower half of his body twists so that I can still keep fucking. My right arm is beneath him, crushed, holding onto his other shoulder; my left elbow crooks his left leg to keep it hoisted in the air, while my left fingers play with his nipples. Both his hands are over his head. He’s grabbed onto the ornate carved headboard and is clutching onto it for dear life, as if afraid he might fall into some unknown abyss below. Slowly and deliberately I withdraw my penis, then immediately thrust it back inside. His hole pops open with every invasion, well-used and gaping. “You’re wet,” I tell him. It’s an unnecessary observation. We both can hear the squelching sound, each time I slide in and out. We both can smell the heady scent of my sperm as it leaks out.

Whenever I squeeze his nipples, he responds with groans and flailing. He’s crying out loud, now, yelling and howling to the dark ceiling. My fingers travel from nipple to nipple, pinching them brutally as I continue to stab him. He lets out a shout mightier than any other, and then jerks and shudders when I give him another savage tweak. I’ve gone too far, I think to myself; I’ve hurt him at last. Yet when my hand moves across his belly to soothe and reassure him, I find my palm meeting a wet and sticky puddle. I haven’t hurt him. He’s shot without me realizing it, and without touching himself. I’ve merely tweaked him in a moment of post-orgasm sensitivity.

My thrusting gradually diminishes. I relax slightly, and use an edge of the towel to mop him up. Then I withdraw, and he whimpers again.

I’m not done. My dick is still hard. It’s still demanding attention.

At some point during the fuck I’d pulled the front of my T-shirt up and over my head so that it remained on my shoulders, yoke-like, but now I remove it. I flip the Decorator over and position him on a clean portion of the towel, separate his legs with my knees, and drive back in. For a moment his back arches as he tries to accommodate my inches once again. Then he sinks into the sensation and relaxes, as he grabs a pillow for his head.

For the second fuck I don’t play the love-maker. I pull his ass apart and drive in repeatedly, getting as deep as possible. I grab his head by the hair and twist it so that I can force him to kiss me, and then drive his face back into the cushion and hold it there as I pound. I bring his legs together to make the hole even tighter, and I adjust my angle. Instead of thrusting up and in, now I’m thrusting straight down to the mattress. It makes him howl. Upward I move further still, so that my dick is angled more to the base of his pelvis. This makes him groan loudest of all, particularly when I shove all the way in and down, stop, and swell my dick as hard and thick as it can get.

“Tell me what you want,” I growl into his ear. He lets out a long, stuttering moan. “You’ve got to say it,” I warn him. His response remains inchoate. “You’ve got to say the words, or by god, I swear I’ll pull out of your cunt right now and walk out of this house. I don’t give a shit how good you feel right now. I will pull out and walk out. You’ve got to say the words. On the count of three”

His mouth works, but his throat won’t cooperate. I yank back on his hair. “Say the words. Three. Two. . . .”

“Seed me.” It’s only a whisper, but the syllables that follow were louder, and full of need. “Please seed me.”

They’ll be the only words he says all evening.

I shoot again, hard and deep. For long moments I see nothing but waves of red and black circles, like those of a pulsing target. My breathing is raspy and labored when my consciousness returns again. I shudder, and wait for the aftershocks. When the last of them fade, I roll with him onto my side once more.

I discover he’s come again as I’ve fucked him, into a puddle on the towel. I fold the fabric so that it wouldn’t cool against his skin.

I’m still in him as we lie there in the twilight. Then the Decorator does what he does every time I’m over there, after I’ve worn him out: he falls asleep. It’s not instantaneous, or unexpected. I think it’s a part he almost likes even better than the lovemaking. He lies there in my arms as I hold him firmly, his hands locked onto my wrists as if he’s a little boy in his father’s embrace. My dick is still hard and inside him, though, glued there by the two loads I’d loosed.

His legs droop and curl first, and then his fingers slacken and relax. I can tell he’s sleeping from the rise and fall of his chest, and by the unguarded way in which he curls himself into a fetal position. He’s not snoring, but the resonance of his breathing is as close to it as he gets.

So I let him sleep. I’ve nowhere to be at the moment. I let him sleep, and breathe, and feel his fingers working at some invisible task in his dreams. They press against my skin as if he’s typing, or playing the piano. For a half hour I lie there with him, relaxing and daydreaming.

When I pull out after all that time, I’m still half hard. I do it so gradually that though he stirs, he doesn’t seem to notice. And when I separate myself, I replace the warmth of my body with that of the blanket, which I pull up and over him from the bed’s bottom. He shifts, and pulls himself into a ball, but otherwise remains slumbering.

It only takes me a minute to pull on my shorts, my T-shirt, and my sandals. My footsteps are soft and quiet as I tiptoe out of that bedroom, and down the stairs, through that well-appointed dining area, and out. The copper dragonfly knocker rattles slightly on the front door as I pull it tight behind me. Upstairs in that house of expensive tables and chairs, and of paintings and photographs and works of art, of custom tiles and tasteful lighting, I know a man lies curled in the smallest possible space in the middle of a large and empty bed, all alone.

At least he fell asleep knowing someone had held him for a while.