The Lower Level

The apartment building lobby is the plainest of the plain. Beige walls. Beige mailboxes near the doors. Beige carpet leading to beige staircases, everything inoffensive to the eye. No matter. I’m not here for the interior decorating.

I take the stairs to the lower level and follow the hallway to the higher numbers. We’d arranged the tryst the night before, when I told him I’d be dropping the family at the train station early in the morning. I’ll put the key under the mat before I go to bed, he wrote me. How about you just come on in and get into bed with me. When I pull back the plastic mat in front of his door, it’s lying there, metallic and shiny. I slide it into the knob, twist, and feel the lock release. I ease the door open, step inside, and leave the key on the front table.

The living room’s neat and inexpensively furnished. He’s drawn the blinds and curtains tight so that very little light leaks through. The CD tower, the computer desk, the back of the sofa are all silhouettes. Across the carpet I shuffle, past the kitchen and the bathroom and down the short hallway to the end. It’s stuffy in here; he keeps the heat high.

He’s beneath a thick duvet. I can see his close-cropped short hair in the dark, but not much else. He’s still as I stand by the bed and remove my shoes, my socks, my sweater. He’s breathing deeply. Perhaps he’s faking, but it sounds as if he’s fast asleep.

That won’t last long.

I remove my T-shirt. Unbuckle my belt. It makes a faint metallic sound as it and my pants slide to the floor. I step out of my trunks. The only things I’m wearing now are a cock ring and a smirk. He stirs a little when his naked flesh is exposed to air. It’s only a few minutes after seven in the morning. I’m still pretty sure he’s sleeping—or he’s doing a mighty fine job of faking it.

I pause to admire his body. It’s a crapshoot with photos online, you know. Some are old, some are deceptive. Some guys just photograph better than they appear in person, and it’s only afterward that you go back to the pics and see all the things that should’ve been obvious on the first viewing: the clever angle that hides the paunch, the body stretch that hides the hunched shoulders, the bad skin that’s been smoothed by a blur. This guy hasn’t deceived me in the least. His photos showed a lean and athletic Latin man with face stubble trimmed in a Nike swoop across his chin, fit and fine.

And that’s exactly what he is. One of his arms lies by his side while the other clutches the pillow. They’re as muscular as his photos, bulging in a way that makes my cock stir. His ass is a marvel of worked-out roundness. There’s a trace of fur across the cheeks, and a valley of the stuff between them. He has one leg pulled up so that I can almost—almost—see his hole.

I lay down on the white sheets next to him and pull the duvet over our bodies.

It’s warm beneath the heavy textiles. Warmer still when I slide behind him. My cock finds his crack, the hardness of it nuzzling the furry crack. My right arm burrows beneath the pillow as my left surrounds his chest. I pull him close to me. It’s then that he begins to waken—or to do an Oscar-worthy imitation of it. He startles; I see his head jerk to see who’s joined him. Either he recognizes me in the near-dark, or he remembers his promises of the night before, because he settles, then melts into me.

I’m kissing the back of his neck, running the flat of my hand up and over the bristles of his hair. His shoulders are broad; I run my palms over their natural bulk, down his biceps, over the light hair of his forearms. My left hand grabs at his ass, squeezing it, stroking it, grabbing at it. When I pull apart his cheeks, my cock hones in on its target, rubbing against the outermost ring of his hole.

He curses softly, and buries his face in the pillow.

I slide down between his legs. I hear him moan a little bit as my hands pull apart his ass. It’s mine, this ass. He’s giving it to me. He’s pushing it up against my breath, humping the mattress fruitlessly in need and frustration. I know he can feel my hot breath against his skin. I know he can feel my beard against his flesh, prickling when he moves against it. Desire is making him anxious. Even his respiration increases. If I laid my hand on his chest, I’d feel his heart fluttering like a bird.

I pull apart his ass and dive in with my face. His hole tastes good. It’s lightly sweaty from a good night’s sleep, but it’s obviously clean. He reacts as if he’s never had it eaten before. Bucks. Whimpers. Lets loose with a torrent of Spanish I don’t really understand. I don’t need to brush up on my high school foreign language skills, though. I know what he’s telling me by the way he pushes, by the way his hole opens for my tongue. He clutches at his pillow as he would a lover. I manhandle his cheeks. I don’t care if my paws leave prints on that round butt. He can’t complain. He knew, when he left that key beneath his apartment mat on the lower level, that I’d take ownership.

For long minutes I chew at his hole. My lips and teeth draw it out, make it wink at me. His breath is increasingly short and raspy. My own cock is retribution itself, stiff and red and angry. Pre-cum is soaking his sheets. I want to punish him for making me this way, for making me need release in these wet and puffy ass lips. I flip him over so that he’s on his back, then rise between his legs. It’s the first time I’ve seen him face to face. His eyes are dark and round obsidian, glinting in what morning light has infiltrated the bedroom. There’s that little swoop of facial hair, the obscenely handsome face. His chest is hair-free, but lightly freckled. There’s a trail of fur leading down from his navel, though, and he lifts his hairy legs into the air without my having to ask. I stare at him while I spit in my hand and mix it with the lube my dick’s already been pumping out on my own.

He must have been doing the same to me. His eyes finish their dance across my face and body. “God damn,” he whispers at me. “You are a hot daddy.”

“You know what I’m here for, boy,” I whisper back. They’re the first words we’ve uttered to each other.

I can see him gulp and strain to try to look at my dick. I’ve already seized his ankles with my left hand, however, as I’ve guided my cock to his hole. It’s engorged with lust for the guy. It wants to split him wide open.

“You ready?” I ask.

He bites his lip. Nods. Then his head jerks back. He gargles out incomprehensible noises as I slide into that wet, tight hole.

His ass wraps around my meat tightly in a hot embrace. His body shakes. Struggles. Then I pass through his tight inner ring; I can feel it stretch and open around my head.

I pause. When I loom over him and brace myself on the mattress, my face directly over his, he stares up at me with half-closed eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers. He looks almost drugged, but I know that expression well. It’s the expression boys wear when they’re truly in the moment, feeling full and complete and in love with my dick. Hell, I challenge myself to make every man wear that look, every time I fuck.

“You’re welcome, son,” I say softly. Then, as he clings to my arms, I drive the rest of my inches home.