Happy Valentine's Day

“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”

“What? Mmmmf. Mmmmmf. Honey. It’s not even six-thirty.”

“C’mon, babe. Don’t you want your Valentine’s present?”

The woman glares at the camera. Rolls her eyes. Opens her mouth. His cock slides between her lips.
The Landscaper and I are in the back of his van. It’s a fucking cold day, but he’s been running the engine so that we’re not freezing. Still, I’ve got my jeans pulled down below my butt, and my rock-hard meat exposed. My fist is clutching my dick as I stroke to the video he’s showing me on his smartphone.

“That feels great, honey. Keep going.” First I hear his voice, tinny and hollow on the little speaker. Next I hear the live thing in my ear, deep and masculine. “She’s hot, huh? She can really suck.”

I nod. She really can suck. It’s pretty obvious the wife is doing a good job on the Landscaper’s cock. He’s nowhere as big as I. In fact, I can’t really see much of it on the little display except when she pulls out to the base of the head. Most of the time, he’s grinding his blond pubes against his wife’s chin and pulling her face down on him. The Landscaper and I have this agreement, when we meet, that I’m totally straight. I wouldn’t want to see his dick. So he makes sure she’s the one in plain view.

I can’t deny how hard his domestic scene is making me. He can see my arousal in the red tautness of my head, in the precum that’s flowing from the tip. “She’s hot, huh?” he repeats.

I nod, mesmerized by the footage he’s showing me. She’s all right, in that early-thirties Lululemon-wearing suburban mommy kind of way.

I think this is the closest we’ve ever been. When we meet, we’ve lately got our act down to a relentless routine. He gives me notice a week before asking if I’m available. We set a date. We meet in his van, in a strip mall parking lot off the freeway not far from home. He gives me cash. I stroke while he watches from between my legs. Sometimes—sometimes—I let him put his lips on my nuts when I’m close to coming. More accurately, I pretend not to notice when he sucks on my nuts as I’m ramping up to blow my load. Of course I wouldn’t let a dude lick my nuts. That’s fag stuff.

Today though. He sent me some kind of joke text in the early morning with a big ol’ photo of a vagina and a corny punchline—Cun’t wait to wish you a happy Valentine’s, or some subtle crap like that. Begged to see me that very afternoon, at lunchtime. He’d toss in an extra fifty if I’d make the time, even take me to lunch after if I wanted. And now we’re both sitting next to each other, our back against the driver’s side seat. His chest is pressed against the back of my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of his body against my right side. When he breathes, it tickles my cheek. I’ve never let him get this intimate with me. But he’s got to be there to show me the movie, see. It’s only because he’s showing me the movie.

“I like watching movies where the chick really knows how to suck, you know?” he says to me, all hearty and bluff and masculine. This is the way dudes talk to each other when they’re alone, in his head. “I mean, lookit how mine does it. She sticks those lips out so she can reach all the way to the base, you know? That way she’s taking it all. Feels real good when someone takes it all, right?”
You don’t have to be a genius to know that he wants to be the ‘someone’ taking all my dick. But you know. Real dudes just don’t think that way. I grunt, keep my eyes on the little screen, keep my hand on my knob.

“Let me show you this,” he said. He pulls the phone away for a second so he can look through his videos. His body is still close to mine, though. He rests his chin on my shoulder as he browses. I honestly don’t know whether he’s deliberately taking the liberty, or whether he’s just unaware he’s doing it. “Okay, this one. I took it just for you.”

When he sticks out the phone this time, he’s fucking pussy. She’s at a strange angle—on her back, legs lifted, I think—and he’s moving the camera around so rapidly it’s almost impossible to get a look at the fucking. But then the camera rights itself and he’s sliding in and out of that sweet pussy like a pro. Then abruptly, it cuts off.

“Too short,” he complains, then starts it over again. I get twenty seconds of crazy camera, then one good shot of his dick gliding in then out, then it stops once more. “You want to fuck her?”

“I’d fuck her,” I tell him. “I’d fuck her hard.”

“You’d fuck her with that big cock of yours?” He’s turned off the phone, now. But he’s still leaning against me, totally unselfconscious about how close we are. “That’s a fucking pussy wrecker. A hell of a lot bigger than mine.”

“Fuck, I’d fuck her real good,” I say, sticking to the limited vocabulary of my trade persona.

“She’d never want me to fuck her again after you were done fucking her,” he says. “Fuck.”

Personally, I’m wondering how many more times we can use the word ‘fuck’ in the conversation. It’s been repeated so many times at this point it’s beginning to sound like a nonsense syllable. But I can’t help adding, “Fuck yeah.”

My entire right side goes suddenly cold when the little landscaping devil over my shoulder moves to his usual spot between my legs. I re-settle myself into my usual position. “Stroke it,” he whispers, watching up close. “God damn.” I close my eyes. Lift my knees and spread my thighs a little. Soon he’ll be putting his mouth on my balls when he thinks I won’t notice.

But that moist touch on my nuts doesn’t come. I hear him rasp out instead, “Let me suck you.”
I open my eyes. Stop stroking. A real straight guy would be offended at the suggestion. My expression is leaden, but my dick is concrete and growing harder. I open my mouth as if to say no.

“Let me suck your big dick,” he pleads. “Come on. I’ll do it like she does. All the way down.”

“Dude,” I complain.

“It’ll be okay,” he says. I can tell he’s genuinely worried about offending me with the gay stuff. “It doesn’t mean shit.”

“I don’t think—“

“Just the head.” There’s a whine to his voice, a deep-seated need. I’ve known for months—years—that we’d get around to this point. To be honest, I’m getting off on his urgency, feeding from it like a vampire on someone’s essential life force. Making him want it this badly. Protracting it. Making it laaaaast. That’s what keeps me coming back, time after time.

If I’d shoved my dick down this wanna-be cocksucker’s throat the first time we’d met, I would’ve never seen his handsome mug again. It would’ve been too much, too fast. He would’ve been overwhelmed. Instead I’ve taunted him with what he wants. I’m made him think about it. Obsess about it. At the same time I’ve kept it one step out of reach. Thinking maybe next time is what keeps him coming back, time after time.

“You won’t tell,” I say. It’s more demand than question. He looks at me with surprise. Pauses. He can’t fucking believe it.

“I won’t tell, dude. Just between us.”

“Just the head,” I say, trying to sound reluctant.

“Just the head. You don’t like it, I’ll stop. Promise.” When I don’t answer right away, he wheedles some more. “Seriously. I’m just helping you out.”

He waits to see if I take the bait. After a long minute, I wrap my fist around my dick. The head is poking out of the circle made by my thumb and forefinger. It’s scarlet in hue, engorged. I point it at him.

He goes at it greedily, worshiping the bare inch of flesh. The taste of my precum must surprise him, because he almost backs right off. But he manages to swallow it down. I feel his tongue slathering the crown, trying to map every contour. My straight married dad of a Landscaper isn’t a wanna-be anymore. He’s officially a cocksucker.

I don’t last long. “Dude, move back,” I warn him, right before I shoot. The orgasm is explosive. One of those that feels less like shivery pleasure and more like an angry explosion of lava from my nuts. He’s not ready to swallow. Not yet. But I’m pumping streams of the stuff all over his face. I’m painting his mouth and lips with the sticky goo, getting it on his eyebrow and cheekbone.

He doesn’t seem to mind at all. He doesn’t even wipe it away. Then he rests the side of his head on my thigh, being careful not to get the juice on my denim.

I say nothing for a moment. It’d be pointless to deny I enjoyed it. He knows I’ve never come that hard for him. My dick’s still hard, even though it’s leaking cum still. I hold it in my hand for a minute, then pull up my shorts and stuff it in the pouch. “You promised,” I remind him.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” he says. “We’re good.”

He’s good, at least. His eyes are shining. He’s still aroused, still breathing heavily. My sperm’s still decorating his face. While I’m yanking on my jacket from the passenger seat, I can hear him playing with his phone again.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”

“What? Honey. It’s not even six-thirty.”

I know that the second I step out of that vehicle, he’ll be frantically wrestling off his pants on the van floor and masturbating to a fast climax. He’ll probably be whacking off to the memory of tasting his first dick for the next six months. Maybe by that time I’ll let him go all the way down.

“Later,” I mumble with feigned embarrassment, as I stuff my shirt back into my jeans and maneuver myself back up to the front seats.

“You want to catch some lunch?” he calls.

I decline, this time. One of us has already eaten.