One of the things I’ve been noticing, this last busy week in the state where I’ve lived for the past twenty-five years, is how all my friends and casual acquaintances have started to crawl out of the woodwork, demanding I drop everything to accommodate them. The friends who’ve been aware of the fact I’ve been on my own without my family and not a whole lot of social activities, these last nine months, apparently suddenly think to themselves, Oh yeah, he’s leaving or something, isn’t he? So they call me up on the spur of the moment and we have conversations like the following:
ME: Hello?
THEM: Hi! I know you’re moving this week so I figured you probably weren’t doing anything right now and might want to go out to an impromptu lunch with me.
ME: It’s two-thirty.
THEM: That’s why I said impromptu.
ME: I ate lunch two hours ago. And I’m actually extremely busy, packing.
THEM: It’d be a shame if I didn’t get to have lunch with you before you go.
ME: Well, you could’ve asked me anytime since last October, if you’d really wanted to see me. But I can’t this week, sorry. [Silence.] Hello?
THEM: I was just trying to do you a favor.
People want to do me strange favors, this week. Last weekend I cleaned out the garage—the big, messy project I’ve been dreading since I learned we were moving. I assembled a bunch of garden tools and accessories in good shape that I didn’t particularly want to cart with us, but which I also didn’t want to throw away. Then I wrote a mass email to friends asking if anybody wanted any of the stuff.
One of my friends said he’d be happy to take a bunch of the stuff off my hands. He’d be over Monday in his truck, he told me, to pick the stuff up. Monday came and went, and he put it off until Tuesday. But Tuesday was too wet, and Wednesday too cold, and on Thursday he was just too tired. Friday and Saturday passed without his visit. Sunday, however, was both warm and sunny. I texted the guy and pointed out how good the weather was, and asked when I could expect him.
I’m out of town for the long weekend. Hey, I’ve got an idea, he texted back. Why not just take it to my place and leave it in the back yard?
Ah, yes. That’s exactly what I wanted to do, with only four days until the movers arrived. Drive forty miles all the way across the metropolitan area to deliver three hundred dollars’ worth of garden implements that I was giving to him, gratis. Because for some crazy reason I thought for a moment there that I was the one doing him the favor. Blind, I was. Blind.
It’s weird, though, the thoughtless little impositions people want to have on my time when I haven’t heard from them for months and months. I say thoughtless not because they’re being deliberately rude, but merely because they don’t realize exactly how hectic everything has been for me this month as I try to clean out the trash I don’t intend to move to the east coast, and ready everything for the movers. They want a last chance to see me. I get that. But at this point it’s not really all that feasible.
Unless they’re a fuckbuddy, of course. And of all my regular fuckbuddies, no one has been taken advantage of these last few weeks like my friend, The Decorator.
By rights I should’ve dedicated a good six or seven entries to The Decorator in the last month. Ever since he paid attention to my Manhunt profile warning the locals of my impending departure, he’s been texting and emailing me weekly, and sometimes two or three times a week, to visit him. And since he contacts me later in the evening, after I’ve done all my chores and am lying exhausted on my bed, I’ve got no obstacles in my way save for my aching muscles—which always feel curiously energized when I hear from him.
One night he invited me over on what had been the hottest evening of the year to date, and we fucked on his multi-hundred-count sheets until they were drenched with dark ovals of sweat and cum. His air conditioning was attempting to cool down the place, but the friction of our bodies was outpacing it in producing heat. By the end of the third fuck, his face was a mottled red and he wheezed like he’d been running a marathon, but he still clung to me, mouth to mouth, as if my kisses and my breath into his lungs were the only things keeping him alive. I had sweat making my head look like an entry in a particularly insane conceptual hair show. The droplets stung my eyes so badly that by that third fuck, which he spent riding me, I couldn’t keep them open. By the time I stumbled out into the night air and back to my car, I felt as if I’d been trapped in a crowded New York City subway car on a summer’s day during a power outage.
He messaged me the next night, which was equally as hot. Repeat performance? he wanted to know.
I need some oral service tonight, if you’re up for it, I texted back. Slow and sloppy.
He met me at the front door of his house and led me through the immaculate dining room and back into the kitchen, which looked like a spread (for all I know, it could have been) from Architectural Digest. There wasn’t a crumb in sight; not a cereal box, or olive jar top lying forgotten on the counter, or anything more personal than a wire bowl of perfectly ripe and round oranges in the center of the granite counter. We kissed for a few moments beneath the dimmed canister lighting from the ceiling. “I thought we’d go downstairs where it’s cooler tonight,” he said. Holding my index and middle fingers like a little boy might with his father, he led me down the steps into his cellar.
I say cellar because I was hoping for something that was anything less than perfection—an uneven concrete floor, an old spindly cabinet from a previous owner, anything. But no, it was a symphony of leather sofas and hardwood flooring and faux-Italianate walls and a ginormous HDTV hanging from the ceiling. He pushed me down onto the sofa and straddled me, kissing me with just as much fervor as the night previous. When I was relaxed, and sighing softly at his gentle kisses, he pulled down my shorts and spent a good twenty minutes on his hands and knees between my legs, sweetly sucking my knob while I lay there with my hands over my head, enjoying.
Eventually he climbed atop me and rode me like he had the night before, digging his heels into the leather cushions and rising and falling with expert control. The entire time we fucked, he stared into my eyes through the slits of his lids. Sometimes he would reach out and cup my chin in his hand, and cock his head. Almost as if he was trying to remember the moment, I thought to myself at the time. Maybe he was.
After he captured a load from me in that position, I flipped him onto his knees and fucked him roughly from behind. The second fuck was longer, and harder, and I had enough time to look around the enviably perfect basement for something, anything, that didn’t make the place look like it had belonged in the pages of the Horchow Collection catalog. Finally I found it, tucked beneath some of glossy magazines fanned out in the middle of the coffee table: a dog-eared copy of a Ratchet and Clank video game guide. Whew. He was human, after all.
Over the last month we’ve fucked in his basement, in his bedroom, in the spare bedroom, and once on the living room sofa, but every single time there’s been one common thing: I’ve always seen the pair of wooden clothespins he loves, lying casually nearby. And every time, at some point in the evening, I applied them to his nipples. Not during the first fuck. That one was all mine. Usually when I’d go in him for a second time and feel my cum swirl around my dick and dribble down the shaft, I’d clamp them down onto his eraser-stub nipples.
I applied them differently on each; for one nipple, I’d pull it out, squeeze on the clothespin, and let the larger of the two holes close around the pink and sensitive flesh. The other I’d apply horizontally, so that the jaws pinched it directly. The sensations were different for each pin—one was pure sensation, while the other would twist and pull with gravity as it extended the nipple down and out. While I’d fuck, I’d manipulate the pins with greater and lesser intensity, squeezing them harder, releasing them slightly. I’d rub the tips of the flaming red nipples with my fingertips; he could feel almost every ridge and whorl of the prints upon them.
He’d always shoot when I’d treat his nipples roughly. Sometimes he wouldn’t even touch himself, or need me to stroke him to climax while I pounded him. He’d just shoot, spurting rope after rope of his semen over the bedsheets or the pillows or the throw he’d tossed over the leather cushions; every thrust I’d made into his hole would force out another large glob of the stuff, and elicit a groan from deep inside his convulsing chest.
I can’t say I got to know The Decorator very well as a person—that is, we didn’t chit-chat. I didn’t learn about his life or his family or his coming-out. What I knew about him, I learned from his love-making.
I knew him to be sweet, and gentle, and romantic at heart. I learned that he knew what he liked, and made it clear what he needed, even without words. I knew that he could be very giving and considerate, and that he loved when I’d hold him close after lovemaking, and let him fall asleep in my arms.
That’s all I needed, really, to know him. The guy has a beautiful home, but even without talking, I can tell the man who arranged and decorated it is even more beautiful inside.
Showing posts with label the decorator. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the decorator. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Pinned
Three times I’ve been to The Decorator’s house since I wrote about him last. The first and second times were both about a month ago, when online he caught me and invited me over late at night. I ended up arriving at eleven and stumbling out of his front door again at one-thirty in the morning, drained and warm and barely able to walk.
He texted me two nights later to thank me, and to let me know he’d been thinking about me. It ended (as I’d hoped) with him inviting me over again. Since his king-sized sheets were in the washer, we fucked like dogs in his spare bedroom, ruining the sheets in there with our mixed cum and sweat. I was a happy man, to see one of my most sensual and favorite fucks twice in a week.
Both times I was over there last month, I’d noticed on his bedside table, next to the lube and a bottle of poppers, a pair of wooden clothespins. The first time I saw them, they registered in my head with surprise. I knew The Decorator liked his nipple play, but he’d asked for anything other than my fingers, mouth, and teeth on them. I’d forgotten about the clothespins on my subsequent visit, until I was pulling on my shoes afterward and noticed them lying there on the spare bedroom nightstand.
This week, I didn’t forget.
I was sitting at home last week, feeling somewhat neglected and out of sorts, when The Decorator sent me a text message asking if I happened to be available that night. Hell. For him, I jump at the opportunities. I shut down my computer, jumped in the shower, and was there within fifteen minutes.
The scene started as usual. I entered the dark, unlocked house and tiptoed up the stairs. The Decorator lay face-down upon his soft-sheeted bed, between the shadows of the dim indirect lighting that shone upon his artwork. I pulled his legs apart and lapped at his butt hole, my tongue savoring the tangy, almost metallic taste of the membrane inside. Neither of us said a word, not even when I pulled him up, like a limp rag doll, into a sitting position and pressed my lips against his.
In silence he undressed me, removing my thick sweater and my V-necked T-shirt, then my pants, socks, and shorts. He knelt on the ground and with his mouth engulfed my dick, sucking it in a way that made me shift and sigh on the sheets. His eyes closed in worship, he licked and sucked at my balls, and then pushed me down into the pillows, so that he could kiss and lick my shoulders and neck. He discovered this sweet spot of mine a few visits ago, that erogenous zone that makes me lose all sense of time and place.
And he’s good to me, when he plays there. It’s not a simple sweep of the lips against my shoulders, or a flick of his tongue against my nape. He works the area for a long, long time, using his mouth and chin and nose to stroke and brush against the skin, his fingers to scrape and knead and push and pull the muscles. The more loudly I gasp, the more broadly my lips part to catch my breath, the more vigorously and passionately he chews, and licks, and sucks, and abrades ever nerve ending in the vicinity, setting them all afire.
At last I couldn’t stand any more. I pushed him to the bed and shoved inside, enjoying the helpless sounds he made as my cock parted his tight hole. Small grunts and groans were the sentences we spoke as I fucked. The sounds of our lips connecting and the sloppy sound of my wet dick plunging in and out of his hole were our punctuation. For a long time, our dialogue was only that soft exchange of the mildest and sweetest of sex noises.
Then, when his eyes were closed and his body at its most accepting, I produced the clothespins.
I’d actually palmed them when he’d been working on my neck and shoulders. During one of my flailings, I’d let my hand land upon the night table. Then, when I was sure he hadn’t been looking, I’d taken the pair of wooden pegs and concealed one in each hand. Now, still fucking him with long, deep, slow strokes, I reached around and twisted his left nipple with my fingers, pulling out. He gasped at the sensation. When I clamped the clothespin around his distended flesh, however, his eyes popped open and he made a sound that surprised me in its ferocity. It was bass, and base—it was the sound of sheer sexual pleasure. Around my dick, his hole first contracted, then expanded, opening wider and with more depth than I’d ever before heard.
His groaning was almost uncontrollable. I’d positioned the pin so that it hung from his nipple and swung there; every time he moved, it would tug and twist at his sensitive nubs. I flicked the end of the clothespin with my finger, sending it flying. He responded with an arched back, a dropped jaw. His eyes rolled back into his head, leaving only the whites. When I pinched the wooden jaws even more tightly, I thought he’d melt into a pile of twitching and quivering nerves.
He didn’t expect when I applied the other clothespin. I tugged his right nipple out and pulled until I could fasten the second peg to its tip. The extra sensation shut up his groans immediately. Instead, he began to shake, and then to whimper. It wasn’t a human noise, that whimpering. It sounded like an animal wounded so badly that it knew the end was near. The Decorator pulled his ass from my cock so quickly that I was fearful I’d damaged him. For a moment, I worried I’d gone too far.
I needn’t have. The moment my dick hit the air, my partner pushed me onto my back, then straddled my hips and impaled himself back onto my still-slick meat. Up and down he raised and lowered himself. His hands clutched for mine and pinned them above my head. His lips connected with my own, and I found myself kissing him passionately. Between us, the clothespins swung and caught at and grazed my skin. Every time they pulled at his nipples, he’d gasp, and slam down on me even harder.
Two tears were on his cheeks, one from the corner of each eye that had escaped and run alongside his nose. When I reached up and brushed one away, his eyes opened. We stared at each other for long moments while his hips rose and lowered, and mine gyrated to match his motions. Then he turned my head to the side, and ran his mouth along my jaw. His chin dug into my neck as he licked and sucked. I tried to pull my hands down, to regain control, but he was determined. And in heat. It felt as if his insides had risen ten degrees in temperature.
He came on me, solely from the pressure of his stiff dick on the underside of my rib cage. The load squirted between us and our torsos crazily mashing together spread it thin. I wanted to roll him over and finish off, but he was insistent. His hips buckled and writhed, and churned. He was determined to take the load from me in that position. Pinned down and willing to be helpless, I let him. In five long, sweeping gushes, I let him. Then, when his grasp lessened, I reached up and removed the clothespins, one at a time. I held my palms over his nipples, to help them return to their normal levels of sensation.
I could feel my semen seeping out of his hole and around my nuts as I lay there, panting. He took a moment to enjoy the sensations, then unmounted. Without asking, or being told, he knelt between my knees and cleaned off my dick, my nuts, and my thighs. Then he rolled me over, lay on my back, and applied gentle kisses to my neck once more.
We stared at each other again when he was done. Then I spoke my only words of the evening. “Why are you so nice to me?” I whispered.
His reply was soft and sincere. I could still see the tracks of moisture from the insides of his eyes, as he stared into mine. “Because you make me feel better than anyone ever has,” he said.
And then we started again.
He texted me two nights later to thank me, and to let me know he’d been thinking about me. It ended (as I’d hoped) with him inviting me over again. Since his king-sized sheets were in the washer, we fucked like dogs in his spare bedroom, ruining the sheets in there with our mixed cum and sweat. I was a happy man, to see one of my most sensual and favorite fucks twice in a week.
Both times I was over there last month, I’d noticed on his bedside table, next to the lube and a bottle of poppers, a pair of wooden clothespins. The first time I saw them, they registered in my head with surprise. I knew The Decorator liked his nipple play, but he’d asked for anything other than my fingers, mouth, and teeth on them. I’d forgotten about the clothespins on my subsequent visit, until I was pulling on my shoes afterward and noticed them lying there on the spare bedroom nightstand.
This week, I didn’t forget.
I was sitting at home last week, feeling somewhat neglected and out of sorts, when The Decorator sent me a text message asking if I happened to be available that night. Hell. For him, I jump at the opportunities. I shut down my computer, jumped in the shower, and was there within fifteen minutes.
The scene started as usual. I entered the dark, unlocked house and tiptoed up the stairs. The Decorator lay face-down upon his soft-sheeted bed, between the shadows of the dim indirect lighting that shone upon his artwork. I pulled his legs apart and lapped at his butt hole, my tongue savoring the tangy, almost metallic taste of the membrane inside. Neither of us said a word, not even when I pulled him up, like a limp rag doll, into a sitting position and pressed my lips against his.
In silence he undressed me, removing my thick sweater and my V-necked T-shirt, then my pants, socks, and shorts. He knelt on the ground and with his mouth engulfed my dick, sucking it in a way that made me shift and sigh on the sheets. His eyes closed in worship, he licked and sucked at my balls, and then pushed me down into the pillows, so that he could kiss and lick my shoulders and neck. He discovered this sweet spot of mine a few visits ago, that erogenous zone that makes me lose all sense of time and place.
And he’s good to me, when he plays there. It’s not a simple sweep of the lips against my shoulders, or a flick of his tongue against my nape. He works the area for a long, long time, using his mouth and chin and nose to stroke and brush against the skin, his fingers to scrape and knead and push and pull the muscles. The more loudly I gasp, the more broadly my lips part to catch my breath, the more vigorously and passionately he chews, and licks, and sucks, and abrades ever nerve ending in the vicinity, setting them all afire.
At last I couldn’t stand any more. I pushed him to the bed and shoved inside, enjoying the helpless sounds he made as my cock parted his tight hole. Small grunts and groans were the sentences we spoke as I fucked. The sounds of our lips connecting and the sloppy sound of my wet dick plunging in and out of his hole were our punctuation. For a long time, our dialogue was only that soft exchange of the mildest and sweetest of sex noises.
Then, when his eyes were closed and his body at its most accepting, I produced the clothespins.
I’d actually palmed them when he’d been working on my neck and shoulders. During one of my flailings, I’d let my hand land upon the night table. Then, when I was sure he hadn’t been looking, I’d taken the pair of wooden pegs and concealed one in each hand. Now, still fucking him with long, deep, slow strokes, I reached around and twisted his left nipple with my fingers, pulling out. He gasped at the sensation. When I clamped the clothespin around his distended flesh, however, his eyes popped open and he made a sound that surprised me in its ferocity. It was bass, and base—it was the sound of sheer sexual pleasure. Around my dick, his hole first contracted, then expanded, opening wider and with more depth than I’d ever before heard.
His groaning was almost uncontrollable. I’d positioned the pin so that it hung from his nipple and swung there; every time he moved, it would tug and twist at his sensitive nubs. I flicked the end of the clothespin with my finger, sending it flying. He responded with an arched back, a dropped jaw. His eyes rolled back into his head, leaving only the whites. When I pinched the wooden jaws even more tightly, I thought he’d melt into a pile of twitching and quivering nerves.
He didn’t expect when I applied the other clothespin. I tugged his right nipple out and pulled until I could fasten the second peg to its tip. The extra sensation shut up his groans immediately. Instead, he began to shake, and then to whimper. It wasn’t a human noise, that whimpering. It sounded like an animal wounded so badly that it knew the end was near. The Decorator pulled his ass from my cock so quickly that I was fearful I’d damaged him. For a moment, I worried I’d gone too far.
I needn’t have. The moment my dick hit the air, my partner pushed me onto my back, then straddled my hips and impaled himself back onto my still-slick meat. Up and down he raised and lowered himself. His hands clutched for mine and pinned them above my head. His lips connected with my own, and I found myself kissing him passionately. Between us, the clothespins swung and caught at and grazed my skin. Every time they pulled at his nipples, he’d gasp, and slam down on me even harder.
Two tears were on his cheeks, one from the corner of each eye that had escaped and run alongside his nose. When I reached up and brushed one away, his eyes opened. We stared at each other for long moments while his hips rose and lowered, and mine gyrated to match his motions. Then he turned my head to the side, and ran his mouth along my jaw. His chin dug into my neck as he licked and sucked. I tried to pull my hands down, to regain control, but he was determined. And in heat. It felt as if his insides had risen ten degrees in temperature.
He came on me, solely from the pressure of his stiff dick on the underside of my rib cage. The load squirted between us and our torsos crazily mashing together spread it thin. I wanted to roll him over and finish off, but he was insistent. His hips buckled and writhed, and churned. He was determined to take the load from me in that position. Pinned down and willing to be helpless, I let him. In five long, sweeping gushes, I let him. Then, when his grasp lessened, I reached up and removed the clothespins, one at a time. I held my palms over his nipples, to help them return to their normal levels of sensation.
I could feel my semen seeping out of his hole and around my nuts as I lay there, panting. He took a moment to enjoy the sensations, then unmounted. Without asking, or being told, he knelt between my knees and cleaned off my dick, my nuts, and my thighs. Then he rolled me over, lay on my back, and applied gentle kisses to my neck once more.
We stared at each other again when he was done. Then I spoke my only words of the evening. “Why are you so nice to me?” I whispered.
His reply was soft and sincere. I could still see the tracks of moisture from the insides of his eyes, as he stared into mine. “Because you make me feel better than anyone ever has,” he said.
And then we started again.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Speed Fuck
what time can you be here tonight? read the text.
Ordinarily the abruptness of such a message would have had me composing imaginary replies in my head along the lines of Well hello to you, too, fuckwad, but when I saw it had come from the Decorator, I softened a little. I like the Decorator. Whenever I see the Decorator, I always walk away sated, happy, and feeling as if I’ve gorged at a buffet of all my favorite foods.
The only problem was, this was last Monday night, and I’d banged Scruffy three times the night before, and had fed a load to the Mechanic in the park a few hours before at lunchtime. Additionally, the Mechanic had left me so buzzed and excited that I’d jacked off after I’d gotten home. I had a momentary doubt that I’d have enough jizz left for the Decorator, if I were to meet him that night.
But I dismissed those doubts almost immediately. It was right at half-past-six when he texted. I can be there at 7:30, I told him.
Damn have to be somewhere at 8, he sent back. I could be naked and bed by 7.
It’d be tight, but I wanted to see him. See you at 7 then, I tapped back. Then I dashed for the shower.
The Decorator lives only five minutes from me. I arrived at his place a good ten minutes early, but since he sent me a message saying he was in bed and ready right as I got there, it worked out well. I parked my car in his driveway, admired the tasteful mix of Halloween and autumn harvest accessories adorning his front porch, and let myself in the front door. Once I’d locked it behind me and made my way upstairs, I stopped in the bedroom doorway and let my eyes adjust.
The Decorator had set several candles at strategic places around the room. They smelled of vanilla, and citrus. It took me a moment to figure out where he was, in the dim and flickering light. Usually he lies in the middle of the bed, waiting for me with his face toward the bureau and his ass propped up by pillows. This time, however, he seemed to be lying beneath the covers. Or more accurately, I could see as I drew closer, he had wrapped himself from the waist down in some kind of blanket. When I knelt down at the bed’s side and began to pull it off of him, I found that it was made of some kind of luxurious fabric, soft and sleek to the touch—the sort of thing a pampered rich boy would want to feel next to his naked skin.
As always, he appeared to be sleeping. But when I slipped off the blanket and folded it into a neat square that I placed at the bed’s corner, he shifted slightly, rolling the muscles of his ass from one side to another in a fashion I couldn’t help but find inviting. I kicked off my sneakers; I shucked down my jeans and pulled off my shirt. If I’d had any doubts about being able to manage a stiff dick after Scruffy and the Mechanic in the preceding few hours, they vanished the moment my knees hit the floor and my hands separated his ass cheeks. I was rock hard by the time my tongue dipped into the valley of flesh and began teasing at his hole.
I love the taste of the Decorator’s pucker. It’s peculiarly metallic, perhaps because of the coppery color of his hair. Whatever it is, I couldn’t get enough of it. I knew I had to act fast, but on the ass-eating I didn’t cut corners. While he shifted and groaned and let out little soft sighs, I munched away at that hole, pausing occasionally to run my teeth over his butt and let my close-cropped beard rasp across his skin. I blew columns of cold air against it to make him raise his head. Then I’d dive back in until he squirmed.
The clock read ten minutes after seven when I rubbed spit over my dick and began to slide into him. He came up on his forearms as I entered, curving back his head. If someone had come into the room right then, it would have looked almost as if he were doing a push-up, and as if I were trying to push him right back down again. His head dropped; his forehead hit the mattress as my nuts pressed up against the base of his hole. I began to fuck him, softly for a few strokes, and then harder, quickly.
Usually my time with the Decorator falls more into the category of lovemaking than outright fucking. Due to his time constraints, however, I made the decision to fuck the hell out of him. Once I was sliding in and out of his hole nicely, I grabbed him by the hips and slammed him, letting my pelvis collide into the soft mounds of his ass. Then I’d withdraw and plunge right back in, over and over again, until every thrust seemed to draw out him a small noise. Sometimes a grunt, sometimes a yelp, sometimes the smallest of whimpers. He wasn’t producing them like a porn star might, making a show of every little noise. They were involuntary, and probably unconscious. His body simply couldn’t help it.
“You know I love breeding you,” I whispered in the vicinity of his ear as the first load came pouring out a few moments later. I could tell it wasn’t the largest load I’d ever delivered into him, but it was enough. I felt the warmth and slipperiness of it spread around my dick as I continued to fuck away at him. When I reached down and under, between his legs, his cock was not only rock hard, but coated with his own pre-cum. At first I thought my load had dripped out and managed to reach his meat, but no—a steady flow gushed from the tip of his dick. Like a faucet, it was. I dipped my forefinger into it and brought it to his mouth. He gobbled it down hungrily, and took the rest of my fingers into his mouth as well.
Together we rolled onto our right sides. I held him in my arms as we continued to fuck, and moved his left hand down until it touched his dick. He took the cue and began to stroke himself while I ground away at his hole. Save for the one sentence I’d whispered before I’d shot, we hadn’t spoken at all. The Decorator loves for me to play with his nipples as we fuck, though, and when I grabbed onto them and squeezed, hard, he exclaimed, “Fuck yes.”
I squeezed his nips as if I was milking them. I yanked and pinched and twisted them cruelly. Every new sensation made his ass clamp down on my still-stiff dick. The stickiness flowing from his own meat connected us as the tip flicked against the back of my wrist, over and over. His own gyrations gradually grew more vigorous. After a few minutes, he was fucking his own hole on my stick, drawing me in more deeply as he pleasured himself. I could tell he was getting closer to his orgasm when his breathing began to shorten. His body elongated. His arm reached around to the back of my head, pulling me close to him. When our lips met, he began to shake and quiver and spew semen all over the sheets.
The Decorator’s excitement spilled back to me. I came a few moments later, hanging onto him around his waist as though I were afraid he’d try to get away. Then we lay there for a moment, quiet.
It was 7:35. I had to go, I knew, if he were going to get to his event on time. Reluctantly, I withdrew. He didn’t move. I used the hand towel nearby to wipe the juices from his legs, and then parted his ass to get a good look at his hole. In the candlelight it was difficult to see, but he seemed red, and puffy, and well-used.
I couldn’t help myself. I knelt down at the bed’s edge and buried my face in his ass once again, licking at that hole and savoring the tastes of his metallic ring, the tang of my cum, and the lingering remains of my own saliva. He moaned and pushed back. A few more droplets of my sperm fell onto my waiting tongue.
After I’d rimmed him until I couldn’t taste any more of the loads I’d left inside, I sat up. “Thank you,” I said in hushed tones, as if I’d entered a cathedral and was determined to remain prayerful. “I really needed that.”
He said nothing, but rose to his knees and hovered over me like a painted angel by an Old Master. His kisses descended onto my ear, my shoulder . . . and then the back of my neck. My neck, the most sensitive place of my entire body, and the spot that craves attention it almost never gets.
“I need to go,” I protested. “You need to get ready. . . .”
He was having none of it. Just as I’d held him down moments before and rimmed his sore and used hole, he refused to let me get up from the bed. His mouth kissed my neck. His tongue licked at it. Together they worked in tandem to make me lean forward in surrender. I groaned, and buried my face in my hands. “God,” I whispered. “Oh god. Oh god.” Over and over I repeated the words as his mouth worked over those few square inches and sent shivers throughout my entire body.
It’s such a simple pleasure. Yet I could have sat there all night, hunched over with my hair spilling down around my face, letting him lick and chew over and around my nape. A few times I tried to protest, but he was having none of it.
It was 7:50 when he finished. “I need to go,” I repeated. When I stood up, though, I could barely keep on my feet. I stumbled, and grabbed for my shoes next to the place where they actually sat. Somehow, though, I managed to get my clothes back on. Without knowing really how I got there, I found myself sitting in my car five minutes later.
It’s not what a dedicated top man should admit—that he enjoyed ten minutes of having his neck munched even more than the forty minutes of fucking and felching that preceded it.
But there it is.
Ordinarily the abruptness of such a message would have had me composing imaginary replies in my head along the lines of Well hello to you, too, fuckwad, but when I saw it had come from the Decorator, I softened a little. I like the Decorator. Whenever I see the Decorator, I always walk away sated, happy, and feeling as if I’ve gorged at a buffet of all my favorite foods.
The only problem was, this was last Monday night, and I’d banged Scruffy three times the night before, and had fed a load to the Mechanic in the park a few hours before at lunchtime. Additionally, the Mechanic had left me so buzzed and excited that I’d jacked off after I’d gotten home. I had a momentary doubt that I’d have enough jizz left for the Decorator, if I were to meet him that night.
But I dismissed those doubts almost immediately. It was right at half-past-six when he texted. I can be there at 7:30, I told him.
Damn have to be somewhere at 8, he sent back. I could be naked and bed by 7.
It’d be tight, but I wanted to see him. See you at 7 then, I tapped back. Then I dashed for the shower.
The Decorator lives only five minutes from me. I arrived at his place a good ten minutes early, but since he sent me a message saying he was in bed and ready right as I got there, it worked out well. I parked my car in his driveway, admired the tasteful mix of Halloween and autumn harvest accessories adorning his front porch, and let myself in the front door. Once I’d locked it behind me and made my way upstairs, I stopped in the bedroom doorway and let my eyes adjust.
The Decorator had set several candles at strategic places around the room. They smelled of vanilla, and citrus. It took me a moment to figure out where he was, in the dim and flickering light. Usually he lies in the middle of the bed, waiting for me with his face toward the bureau and his ass propped up by pillows. This time, however, he seemed to be lying beneath the covers. Or more accurately, I could see as I drew closer, he had wrapped himself from the waist down in some kind of blanket. When I knelt down at the bed’s side and began to pull it off of him, I found that it was made of some kind of luxurious fabric, soft and sleek to the touch—the sort of thing a pampered rich boy would want to feel next to his naked skin.
As always, he appeared to be sleeping. But when I slipped off the blanket and folded it into a neat square that I placed at the bed’s corner, he shifted slightly, rolling the muscles of his ass from one side to another in a fashion I couldn’t help but find inviting. I kicked off my sneakers; I shucked down my jeans and pulled off my shirt. If I’d had any doubts about being able to manage a stiff dick after Scruffy and the Mechanic in the preceding few hours, they vanished the moment my knees hit the floor and my hands separated his ass cheeks. I was rock hard by the time my tongue dipped into the valley of flesh and began teasing at his hole.
I love the taste of the Decorator’s pucker. It’s peculiarly metallic, perhaps because of the coppery color of his hair. Whatever it is, I couldn’t get enough of it. I knew I had to act fast, but on the ass-eating I didn’t cut corners. While he shifted and groaned and let out little soft sighs, I munched away at that hole, pausing occasionally to run my teeth over his butt and let my close-cropped beard rasp across his skin. I blew columns of cold air against it to make him raise his head. Then I’d dive back in until he squirmed.
The clock read ten minutes after seven when I rubbed spit over my dick and began to slide into him. He came up on his forearms as I entered, curving back his head. If someone had come into the room right then, it would have looked almost as if he were doing a push-up, and as if I were trying to push him right back down again. His head dropped; his forehead hit the mattress as my nuts pressed up against the base of his hole. I began to fuck him, softly for a few strokes, and then harder, quickly.
Usually my time with the Decorator falls more into the category of lovemaking than outright fucking. Due to his time constraints, however, I made the decision to fuck the hell out of him. Once I was sliding in and out of his hole nicely, I grabbed him by the hips and slammed him, letting my pelvis collide into the soft mounds of his ass. Then I’d withdraw and plunge right back in, over and over again, until every thrust seemed to draw out him a small noise. Sometimes a grunt, sometimes a yelp, sometimes the smallest of whimpers. He wasn’t producing them like a porn star might, making a show of every little noise. They were involuntary, and probably unconscious. His body simply couldn’t help it.
“You know I love breeding you,” I whispered in the vicinity of his ear as the first load came pouring out a few moments later. I could tell it wasn’t the largest load I’d ever delivered into him, but it was enough. I felt the warmth and slipperiness of it spread around my dick as I continued to fuck away at him. When I reached down and under, between his legs, his cock was not only rock hard, but coated with his own pre-cum. At first I thought my load had dripped out and managed to reach his meat, but no—a steady flow gushed from the tip of his dick. Like a faucet, it was. I dipped my forefinger into it and brought it to his mouth. He gobbled it down hungrily, and took the rest of my fingers into his mouth as well.
Together we rolled onto our right sides. I held him in my arms as we continued to fuck, and moved his left hand down until it touched his dick. He took the cue and began to stroke himself while I ground away at his hole. Save for the one sentence I’d whispered before I’d shot, we hadn’t spoken at all. The Decorator loves for me to play with his nipples as we fuck, though, and when I grabbed onto them and squeezed, hard, he exclaimed, “Fuck yes.”
I squeezed his nips as if I was milking them. I yanked and pinched and twisted them cruelly. Every new sensation made his ass clamp down on my still-stiff dick. The stickiness flowing from his own meat connected us as the tip flicked against the back of my wrist, over and over. His own gyrations gradually grew more vigorous. After a few minutes, he was fucking his own hole on my stick, drawing me in more deeply as he pleasured himself. I could tell he was getting closer to his orgasm when his breathing began to shorten. His body elongated. His arm reached around to the back of my head, pulling me close to him. When our lips met, he began to shake and quiver and spew semen all over the sheets.
The Decorator’s excitement spilled back to me. I came a few moments later, hanging onto him around his waist as though I were afraid he’d try to get away. Then we lay there for a moment, quiet.
It was 7:35. I had to go, I knew, if he were going to get to his event on time. Reluctantly, I withdrew. He didn’t move. I used the hand towel nearby to wipe the juices from his legs, and then parted his ass to get a good look at his hole. In the candlelight it was difficult to see, but he seemed red, and puffy, and well-used.
I couldn’t help myself. I knelt down at the bed’s edge and buried my face in his ass once again, licking at that hole and savoring the tastes of his metallic ring, the tang of my cum, and the lingering remains of my own saliva. He moaned and pushed back. A few more droplets of my sperm fell onto my waiting tongue.
After I’d rimmed him until I couldn’t taste any more of the loads I’d left inside, I sat up. “Thank you,” I said in hushed tones, as if I’d entered a cathedral and was determined to remain prayerful. “I really needed that.”
He said nothing, but rose to his knees and hovered over me like a painted angel by an Old Master. His kisses descended onto my ear, my shoulder . . . and then the back of my neck. My neck, the most sensitive place of my entire body, and the spot that craves attention it almost never gets.
“I need to go,” I protested. “You need to get ready. . . .”
He was having none of it. Just as I’d held him down moments before and rimmed his sore and used hole, he refused to let me get up from the bed. His mouth kissed my neck. His tongue licked at it. Together they worked in tandem to make me lean forward in surrender. I groaned, and buried my face in my hands. “God,” I whispered. “Oh god. Oh god.” Over and over I repeated the words as his mouth worked over those few square inches and sent shivers throughout my entire body.
It’s such a simple pleasure. Yet I could have sat there all night, hunched over with my hair spilling down around my face, letting him lick and chew over and around my nape. A few times I tried to protest, but he was having none of it.
It was 7:50 when he finished. “I need to go,” I repeated. When I stood up, though, I could barely keep on my feet. I stumbled, and grabbed for my shoes next to the place where they actually sat. Somehow, though, I managed to get my clothes back on. Without knowing really how I got there, I found myself sitting in my car five minutes later.
It’s not what a dedicated top man should admit—that he enjoyed ten minutes of having his neck munched even more than the forty minutes of fucking and felching that preceded it.
But there it is.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Afterward
Afterward.
Hip against hip, two curves in parallel. Belly to back. My leg crooked over his, capturing his thighs. My arms around him, his chest hairs tickling my wrists. I can feel the nub of his nipple against the heel of my hand. When I rub it slightly, the ridges on my skin make the Decorator shiver. Even that sensation is too much, at this moment.
My lips are at his neck, my nose in his short, fair hair. When I breathe, pillows of air linger, trapped between us. They stay warm for a moment before they dissipate. My breath still smells of his mouth, and of all the equatorial places my tongue has traveled across his body. The bristles lining my upper lip have trapped his scents. All I have to do is wrinkle my nose to smell all of him.
He wants to be held tightly, afterward. “Don’t let go,” he whispers. The room has been dark all evening, lit only from outside by white fairy lights strung in his back garden. From the bed I can see three of the tiny bulbs on the top branches poking above the window sill. We lie there in the dark, in the quiet, saying nothing. Glued together by sweat and grease and by the connection of moments before.
I’m still inside him, spent but still hard. He wants me there.
As we lie there, connected and pressed tight, I feel his shoulders loosen. They slump into the mattress in small jerks. I hear the faint moist sound of his lips parting. He breathes heavily, then stiffens. A rumble sounds in his chest, half-amused, half-apologetic. I hold him more tightly, and feel him respond by pushing back against me.
It’s okay to let go, I mean the embrace to say.
Again his muscles relax, one by one. His head slumps into the pillow. His mouth opens, and his breathing sounds become deep and rasping. They tickle at the back of his nose as they pass, until at last he’s snoring. The sound makes me smile.
The room is cool, but there’s heat blossoming between our bodies where our skin touches. It's what the dead must envy most about the living, that heat. It seeps into my chest and stomach. My cock is kept stiff by it. His hands press at mine in his sleep, clutching and releasing to echo the movements of whatever dream is passing through his mind.
The weight of his body presses against my bicep. I feel my arm growing heavy. Prickles, then buzzes, dance along its nerves. I flex a few fingers to see how much feeling is left.
Will he wake if I pull my numb limb from under him?
He does not.
Hip against hip, two curves in parallel. Belly to back. My leg crooked over his, capturing his thighs. My arms around him, his chest hairs tickling my wrists. I can feel the nub of his nipple against the heel of my hand. When I rub it slightly, the ridges on my skin make the Decorator shiver. Even that sensation is too much, at this moment.
My lips are at his neck, my nose in his short, fair hair. When I breathe, pillows of air linger, trapped between us. They stay warm for a moment before they dissipate. My breath still smells of his mouth, and of all the equatorial places my tongue has traveled across his body. The bristles lining my upper lip have trapped his scents. All I have to do is wrinkle my nose to smell all of him.
He wants to be held tightly, afterward. “Don’t let go,” he whispers. The room has been dark all evening, lit only from outside by white fairy lights strung in his back garden. From the bed I can see three of the tiny bulbs on the top branches poking above the window sill. We lie there in the dark, in the quiet, saying nothing. Glued together by sweat and grease and by the connection of moments before.
I’m still inside him, spent but still hard. He wants me there.
As we lie there, connected and pressed tight, I feel his shoulders loosen. They slump into the mattress in small jerks. I hear the faint moist sound of his lips parting. He breathes heavily, then stiffens. A rumble sounds in his chest, half-amused, half-apologetic. I hold him more tightly, and feel him respond by pushing back against me.
It’s okay to let go, I mean the embrace to say.
Again his muscles relax, one by one. His head slumps into the pillow. His mouth opens, and his breathing sounds become deep and rasping. They tickle at the back of his nose as they pass, until at last he’s snoring. The sound makes me smile.
The room is cool, but there’s heat blossoming between our bodies where our skin touches. It's what the dead must envy most about the living, that heat. It seeps into my chest and stomach. My cock is kept stiff by it. His hands press at mine in his sleep, clutching and releasing to echo the movements of whatever dream is passing through his mind.
The weight of his body presses against my bicep. I feel my arm growing heavy. Prickles, then buzzes, dance along its nerves. I flex a few fingers to see how much feeling is left.
Will he wake if I pull my numb limb from under him?
He does not.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
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.
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.
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