Happy Valentine's Day #2

“I’ve only got until six,” he says the moment I’m in the door. He whirls in place and pads across the living room on bare feet. I guess he trusts me to close the front door behind myself. Around the thickly-upholstered sectional he walks and down the hallway. “Then I’ve got to. . . .” He’s still talking, but already he’s out of earshot.

“What was that?” I say, as I follow the scent of him down the hallway of the ranch-style house. At last I find him in one of the bedrooms. He’s on all fours, ass in the air, the hole squarely pointed at the doorway.

Did I forget to mention he’d answered the door completely naked?

His voice is slightly muffled from the pillow into which he’s buried his face. “I said, at six I have to jet down the Avenue and meet the wife and kids for dinner. Valentine’s day, you know.”

I know. I’d already spent a half-hour in the van with the Landscaper at lunchtime. Since then, the thought of him sucking the head of my dick for the first time has kept my meat three-quarters hard, even during the unerotic tasks of cleaning the cat litter boxes and salting the front walk. It’s been raging for a place to unload ever since, actually. I kick off my boots and start unbuttoning my shirt.

“You don’t have to worry about foreplay with me,” he says in a conversational tone as I undress. “Just drop your pants and fuck it hard if you want. I don’t need to be eaten out or anything. Just been a while since I had a good cock, and you’ve got a hell of a nice one.”

“Thanks,” I say. I’m not enjoying the prattle, exactly. And to be honest, guys who tell me to skip the foreplay aren’t usually going to get the best of my attention. I’m all about the foreplay.

Plus, my dick’s not a broomstick handle. It’s not rigid when I push down my jeans and shorts and let it flop out. Sure, it’s halfway there, but it likes a little attention before I just ram it home. I stagger over to the bedside and pull his head toward my crotch. He opens his mouth again. This time it’s to suck.

The guy’s got a good mouth on him. His hair is long enough to be styled in a kind of retro-seventies feathered way—eccentric for the area, but obviously expensively-done. He’s got the body of a daddy who manages to get in a few workouts here and there, between picking up the kiddies from gymnastics and ferrying them in the family SUV to dance class. He’s young. No more than thirty. But he sucks like he’s been doing it all his life, gobbling down to the root of me and breathing heavily enough to stir my pubes through his nostrils. I’m hard and glistening to spit within moments.

He buries his head in the pillows again. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see much of my face,” he says as I stride around to the foot of the mattress. Too late for that. I saw it in the photo he’d texted me, minutes before I showed up. I’d seen it when he’d answered the door, even though he’d walked off too quickly for me to get a good look. If total anonymity was what he needed, he should’ve backed up that ass to a gloryhole at the Bridgeport adult bookstore.

When I finger his hole, I find he’s greased-up already. I wipe a little of that lube on my cock head, letting it mix with the spit he’s left there.

“Fuck it,” he says. This time he sounds like he’s begging.

I pull him a little closer to the edge, aim at his pucker, and slide in.

He’s not tight. Fucking him feels like fucking pussy; his insides are soft and moist and warm. He offers little resistance to my stiffness as I push inside. From the time my head disappears until the moment my nuts bounce against his for the first time, he begins groaning. “Yes,” he says. “Oh god yes. Yes. This is what I needed.” I start fucking with long, deep strokes, mesmerized by how the flare of my cock head pulls out his ass lips. They roll over the edge, cling to the tip, and on the return trip glide back inside him along with my shaft. “Oh fuck yes. I knew you’d know how to fuck, with that dick.”

I don’t really care that he’s talking too much, or denying me my foreplay. After the charged lunchtime with the Landscaper, I really just need a hole to load. I close my eyes and shut out the domestic artifacts littering the bedroom around me—the eyeglasses, the basket of laundry, the novels on the bedside table—and just enjoy the sensations.

“Give it to me,” he whispers. He’s got his back arched and his forehead resting on his arms, which are clutching the pillow. “Give it all to me. Knock me up. Make me pregnant.”

My eyes open again. He’s looking back over his shoulder at me, showing that face again. Our eyes connect as I fuck him in silence. For a crystal clear moment, we measure each other and render judgment. He and I both know what we’re there for.

Maybe he can sense how his words excite me. He buries his head again and starts repeating them. “Fuck that cunt. Knock it up with your seed, man. Make me pregnant. Knock me up with your babies and make me carry ‘em for you.” My breathing intensifies. I fuck harder. The bedstead rattles from the force of it. “Plant that fucking seed, man. Make that hole yours. Spray that juice so far up me I can taste it in my fucking throat. Damn!” Now he’s beating his head against the mattress. “Do it. Seed it. Fuck me!”

I grunt. I’d already come all over the Landscaper earlier. This load is bigger, juicier, the orgasm even more intense. When I shoot, I’m holding him at the crook of his neck and shoulder, yanking him down onto me to get it in as deep as possible. Once, twice, three times my cock spurts. Then, a moment later, a fourth.

I try to pull out slowly, but he’s already hopping up and dabbing himself off with a hand towel. “Woof,” he says, passing me to get to the bathroom. “Now that was a great fuck. I bet I’m the happiest married man in town, this Valentine’s Day.”

I think of the Landscaper as I tug up my jeans. Second happiest, maybe.