Fudge

So I’m at this guy’s weekend house. Weekend house, mind you—one of those Victorian two-story New England-type deals originally built in 1860, with a cupola and a grand front porch and a plaque next to the front door stating that it’s part of this hamlet’s historic district. He’s a Manhattan banker who already owns an apartment in the east seventies. (“Don’t hate me,” he begged, when he confessed his profession.) A weekend house that’s been renovated to the gills inside and decorated with tasteful white pine furniture and inoffensive works of art.

I’m a little surprised, after I arrive and beg to take a quick pee in the bathroom, to see one of those signs on the sink that asks guests to help conserve water by hanging up towels if they plan to reuse them, and to leave them on the floor if they wish the maids to provide replacements. Later I figure out that during the summers, he probably clears out his personal belongings and uses a service to rent the place out.

It’s in that kind of waterfront neighborhood. Across the street from the docks, you know. If one had a sailboat, it’d be heaven.

But he’s here now, and I’m here, and we’re undressing each other next to the suitcase he’s got spilled out all over the floor. I’m pleased because he looks like his photo, which is a refreshing change in this area. He’s pleased because I’ve got the big dick he wants. He’s on his knees, leaning across the suitcase to get at it. Then he’s tackling me, arms around my waist, so that I fall back onto the bed with its hundred decorative accent pillows. There are so many pillows, in fact, that there’s a bit of a pillow explosion when my long frame hits the mattress. He has to take a moment to select which of the fussy cushions gets to stay, and which he’s tossing over the suitcase to the other side of the room.

Then we’re making out like demons. He’s a good kisser. Very good. He’s one of those silver foxes, an older guy with a head of gray hair and a gym-worked body, a handsome urban professional who’s probably made a good name for himself along with the wads of cash it would take to buy a weekend house like this one. He’s all about my dick, too. He goes down on it like he’s hungry and it’s the first good meal he’s seen in weeks. I’m groaning and moaning and my eyes are rolling toward the back of my head, as I arrange one of the remaining pillows behind my neck.

He smells good, too. Like soap, or as if he’s stepped right out of the shower. I notice it when I pull him up to kiss me again, and then suck on his nipples. I flip him onto his belly and kiss his shoulders, his back. I scrape my beard down his spine, and let my chin part his ass cheeks. I lick at his hole, and he shivers. Then I bite at it, and it growls and pushes back against my face. He’s getting into the rim job. His hips buck and quiver, his hole opens. I shove in a couple of fingers, and he lets out a low growl from deep within his core. He wants it. He’s ready.

Some lube. Some shoving. It doesn’t take much, and then I’m in. He’s got a sweet hole, and damn, does he ever look good there perched at the edge of the mattress, his ass in the air, his knees spread wide. He looks like a porn actor. He’s loving the fuck as much as he loved going down on me, as much as he loved my mouth against his. He’s no buttoned-down banker, now. He’s a fucking whore, pussying up for a real man’s dick, and he’s letting his pleasure be known. He’s howling and panting and begging me to go deeper. I’m matching him obscenity for obscenity, thrust back with stroke forward, matching every roughness with a pound at his hole.

“Let me get on my back,” he says. “I wanna watch you fuck me. Let me get on my back.”

I pause, and nod. This is when the unspeakable happens.

He pulls off my dick so quickly that it makes a sound like a cork coming out of a wine bottle. Only when it does, a geyser follows. A brown geyser. It’s the consistency of canned beef stew and just as chunky, and not only am I aghast as it splatters out and hits me right between my pelvic bones, but I have to watch as another squirt of it dribbles down his backside and drips onto the floor.

Somehow, he hasn’t even noticed. “Come on, man,” he’s begging. “Stick it back in.”

“You’re dirty,” I tell him.

“Oh shit,” he says, looking up and noticing that his guest has been splattered in the stuff.

Pun not intended, I’m pretty sure.

I’m not gagging. I’m not even grossed out, except in an abstract, mental way. I just don’t say a word and I walk into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and step in. I let the hot water clean away the worst of it, and only then do I reach for the soap and begin to lather up.

When I leave the bathroom, I drop the towel on the floor.

He’s managed to clean up a little while I’ve been in there. “You want to keep going?” he says from the bed. He’s on his back, legs up, playing with himself. Still hopeful.

“No.”

“Let me jack off then,” he says.

I’m too polite to say no, so carefully watching where I step, I walk over to the bed and sit there beside him while he wanks. It doesn’t take long, thank god. My own dick is limp. The mood’s gone. He might be a handsome banker to everyone else, but now, to me, he’s forevermore that guy who had a chocolate fountain coming out of his ass, and somehow that’s not all that erotic an image.

“Next time I’ll make sure to clean out all the way,” he promises, as he leads me down the stairs and through the kitchen to let me out. Which makes me wonder—how far did he clean, exactly, if that was a partial job? And what would’ve it been like if he hadn’t cleaned at all. “Can I get you anything? Do you want some fudge?”

I turn around, thinking he’s making a badly-timed joke. But no, he’s got a cookie tin open. It’s full of squares of dark chocolate.

I decline. I’ve had enough fudge for the day.