by J. M. Snyder
He holds his dick with one hand; the other rests on the top of my head. I feel its weight tamping down my cowboy hat. Now he moves that hand to the back of my neck—the fingers are hot against my skin, strong as they pull me toward him. “Take it,” he says, his damp cockhead smearing across my cheeks, angling for my lips. “Take it all in.”
I try to oblige. Opening wide, I wrap my lips around my teeth and clamp down gingerly around his hard erection. He moans as his hips buck, forcing his cock farther in. It tickles the back of my throat, and my lips kiss the hair curled at the base of his length. “That’s it,” he tells me, kneading my nape as if in encouragement.
I pull back a little, let the mushroom-shaped tip of his dick bump against the back of my front teeth, then dive down again for more. He trickles onto my palate, into my throat. I work at him with all I’ve got—cheeks and lips and tongue, sucking at him, moaning into his groin. He’s so close, I can feel it. Just a little longer, a little harder, a little more…
But the next time I pull back, he catches me by the collar and keeps me at bay. “You’re paying for more than this,” he says. “Let me at that ass of yours, amigo.”
I stumble to my feet, pushing my jeans and briefs down to my ankles as I turn around. I feel large, warm hands on my ass and I grab onto the side of the stall, bracing myself. “God,” I sob, trembling beneath Delfino’s touch. “Please.”
With a snicker, he asks, “Please what?”
I wriggle my hips, hoping to entice him. “Fuck me, will you? Please, Delfino. Por favor. I’ve been dreaming of your fat cock in my ass every damn night.”
He leans against me—I feel my own spit wet on his dick as it rubs between my ass cheeks. His back is hard where it presses into me, his weight welcome and warm. His breath is hot in my ear as he sighs, “You got a filthy little mouth on you, muchacho. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“You’re my first,” I say over my shoulder.
His face is so close, I can almost see the black center of his eyes, rimmed by an umber as dark as the shadows around us. He stares at me for a long moment, his cock throbbing between us with a pulse I can almost feel—it matches the pounding of my own thudding heart. “¿Me estás cagando?”
I nod to assure him. “Honest. I’ve never…I mean, I’ve always wanted to, but I just…I didn’t—”
His lips touch my cheek, a soft, chaste kiss that cuts me off in mid-sentence. “Keep up the trash talk, ese. It turns me on.”
“Then fuck me already,” I drawl, grinning when his hands squeeze my buttocks. “Fuck me hard and fast. I want to feel you come all the way up into the back of my mouth.”
He slaps my ass, his hand stinging pleasantly against my flesh. “I’d have never thought you’d be so dirty,” he says quietly, half to himself.
I hear the amusement in his voice and want to please him. “Fuck me, Delfino,” I moan, arching my back to present my ass to him. My voice rises to the rafters. “Plow into me, cogeme, cogeme!”
He pushes my shirt up out of the way, then kicks my feet farther apart. Over my shoulder, I watch him stick the first two fingers of his left hand into his mouth, then he uses them to paint a path down my lower back with his spittle. I tense as he moves lower, between the cleft of my butt cheeks, lower.
Then his forefinger rims my clenched asshole and my dick goes from a spent chamber to fully cocked and loaded in the time it takes him to trace a circle around my tender anus.
“Yes!” I cry, flexing my sphincter to try and draw him in. “God, yes, yes, yes.”
There’s a bitter sting when the first finger enters me—I draw up on my toes, then force myself to rock back and sit into his palm. The burn eases as he works at my ass, relaxing the tight skin, readying me for his dick. There’s less pain when the second finger enters, and the fullness takes my breath away. He rubs my back as I fuck his other hand, gasping at the sensations flooding my body. Nothing I’ve ever done to myself has felt this good. “Yes!”
When he pulls free, I feel too loose, empty, but only for a moment. Then the knob of his fat dick is pushing at me, rubbing its way inside. I cry out, a litany of words I string together with no meaning at all, fuck and yes and ay yi yi, ay si, Delfino, God, please. That’s the brunt of it, please—harder, faster, deeper, more, as far in as he can get, please don’t stop, don’t ever fucking stop.
Don’t stop fucking, ever, please.
His movements are nothing like Hank’s. He drives into me once hard, pushing his body into mine, melding us together in the heat and the dark and the stillness of the barn. Then he runs his hands up my sides, across my back and chest, down to my cock to stroke it as he moves within me. His hips move from side to side, little hard thrusts that keep his dick deep within me, keep me stimulated to the point of distraction. I feel his body right against mine, his closeness like a shotgun in the dark, aimed my way. His fingers squeeze my trigger as he pushes into me little by little, exquisite little fucks like a string of pearls rubbed against my prostate. He never pulls out, never lets up. At my crotch, his hand jerks me off as he thrusts into me with a steady pace. Nothing fast and furious, nothing selfish, nothing at all like what I expected. He keeps a hand on my cock at all times, bringing me along with him on this ride, until the moment his seed spurts deep within the center of my being, and triggers in me a second orgasm more powerful than the first.
Sweet Jesus, I’m in love.
* * * *
When it’s over, he stands so close to me as we straighten out our clothes. His hips bump mine, his elbows nudge me, and when he looks my way, the slow smile spreading across his face ignites his eyes like twin pools of oil smoldering in the hot summer sun. “I feel like I should pay you,” he says, buttoning his jeans.
“It was worth it to me.” I lean back against the side of the stall, the mare nickering behind me. I don’t yet trust my legs to support my weight. My whole body feels like a fired gun, hollow but ready to be reloaded and fired again. At four dollars a fuck, though, I don’t expect to get another one again any time soon. I could run through my life savings for this man, I know, my dream of a ranch of my own one day dissolving in a haze of sex and smoke.
Delfino places a hand beside me on the stall as I’m rebuttoning my shirt. I glance up at him, into a hard stare I can’t quite interpret. Before I can say anything, he leans in close, catching my chin with gentle fingers to hold me steady. His eyes slip shut as he comes closer and I stare, wide-eyed, breathless, waiting, until those pouting lips touch mine.
The kiss is softer than I had thought possible, his touch tender. His tongue licks into me like a tentative explorer stumbling upon unchartered territory for the first time. He does taste like my juices, but beneath the heavy flavor is one all his own. I rub my tongue alongside his and give into the kiss. When he finally pulls back, my tongue follows his out between my lips to lick his saltiness away.
“What was that for?” I ask with a sigh.
Delfino shrugs but doesn’t move away—he’s still so damn close. I want him to take me in his arms, hold me tight, but that might be pushing it. “You’re not like the others, ese,” he says softly. “I thought you just wanted a piece of ass because you’d seen Mr. Hank getting some.”
I feel my cheeks start to burn. He has me pegged, all right. That’s exactly what I’d wanted, at first. “Well…”
“But you want me,” Delfino continues. “If I didn’t follow Mr. Hank into the barn, he’d ask someone else, one of the other vaqueros or maybe the cook’s boy, someone. He doesn’t care as long as he gets off. Once he’s married, he’ll get enough at home not to come sniffing around here for it any more.”
I look down at my boots as I scruff them in the sawdust. “I can’t afford to do this often,” I admit. “God, if I were as rich as Mr. Swanson, I’d have you in my bed every night. But four bucks is almost half my pay.”
His hand releases my chin and drops to rest on my chest, warm, welcome. “Way I figure it, tonight was only really worth about a
dollar or so. I mean, I had you, not the other way around. So you still have some credit, if you want to do it again…”
As his voice trails off, I look up into his face, not daring to believe my ears. “That isn’t fair,” I say, praying he isn’t just saying shit to get my hopes up. “We agreed on four bucks—”
“But we didn’t agree how much that gets you,” he points out. His hand trails down my abdomen to rest on the buckle of my belt. “If you really want to do this again—”
“Oh, God, I do,” I gush. I can’t help it; my whole body yearns for this man. He’s right, it wasn’t just the sex. It was him.
He plucks at the last button on my shirt above where the fabric disappears into my jeans. “Then let’s meet here again next Friday when we can be alone, and I’ll let you know when your credit’s run out.”
I start to thank him but he leans in again and presses his mouth to mine, sealing the date with a kiss.
THE END
Maintenance!
Going back to work the Monday after a hurricane is hell when you’re the only maintenance man for a 130-apartment complex. My official title is “manager” but let’s be serious here—who am I managing? There’s Shonda, the girl at the office who fields calls from residents, and there’s me.
The storm blew through over the weekend, leaving flooded roads, toppled trees, and downed power lines in its wake. A quarter of a million people lost their electricity, including an entire row of our townhouses on one street when a tree took out their transformer. I came in Monday with a line of work orders already waiting for me—many from the people without power, like I was going to be much help until the power company got that line back up.
The rest of the orders ranged from broken windows to leaking roofs to tree limbs fallen on cars in the parking lot. Plus the apartment pool had flooded, and lounge chairs now floated in the deep end along with dead leaves and debris.
It was going to be a long day.
Among the work orders were a few non-critical ones that had nothing to do with the storm. A blown pilot light on a water heater, a blocked condensation line on an a/c unit, a clogged shower drain, shit like that. When someone called in one of those, Shonda told them they were at the end of the line—too much else to do today, too many other major problems ahead of theirs. Still, I pocketed a handful of the easy ones to knock off as I could, knowing I was going to need a break from hurricane-related damage soon enough.
I was right. By noon, I was tired of looking at broken branches and green leaves plastering the sidewalks and parking lots. I’d fished as much of the mess as I could out of the pool and spent two hours cutting up an old tree that fell just inches from the back of one of the garden apartments. The upper limbs broke the railing on the apartment’s terrace, and though the resident bitched at me, her bathrobe clutched tight as she leaned out her French doors to complain, she was lucky the damn thing didn’t end up in the middle of her living room. I told her as much—one of her neighbors a street over hadn’t gotten off so easy.
With my lunch break just around the corner, I took a quick look through the non-critical orders in my pocket. One of them sounded simple enough—a dripping sound in the air conditioning unit, just a blocked line it would take me two seconds to blow out. And 6-B was in the same building as the lady with the downed tree, so I grabbed the shop vac from the bed of my pickup and headed upstairs to check it out.
I didn’t expect anyone home—it was Monday, after all, most people at work or school this time of the day. Since I change the filters on each and every apartment, I know who lives where for the most part, and in this apartment was a college-aged young woman with one cat. Whenever she expected me to show up, she left a note taped to the outside of her door, asking me to make sure the cat didn’t get out. As if I would. To be honest, all I’d ever seen of the cat was a streak of orange fur—the moment I opened the door and kitty realized I wasn’t her, it raced to hide in the bedroom closet.
So I was a little surprised not to see a note on her door. Maybe her classes were canceled because of the storm. Maybe she didn’t have any today. Who knew? Lugging the shop vac down the hall, I stopped in front of her apartment and knocked on the door.
No answer.
Of course not, that would’ve been too easy. I knocked again, this time shouting out, “Maintenance!” Just in case she was asleep or something.
I waited.
A minute passed; no one came to the door. I knocked a third time, my limit, and shouted once more. I heard a door open downstairs—probably another resident needing something, but I had enough on my plate already. Digging into my pocket for the ring of master keys I carried, I found the one for apartment 6-B and unlocked the door.
I caught a glimpse of an orange blur as the cat raced past me into the bedroom. So she still had the pet. Leaning into the foyer, I called out, “Maintenance.”
Nothing.
The door to the apartment’s only bedroom stood open to my left—I glanced in but saw no one. The bed was neatly made, the closet door ajar wide enough to accommodate a small feline. Ahead of me, the living room was empty, as well, bedding folded neatly on one corner of the sofa as if someone had left it there after doing laundry. No one was in the apartment’s small kitchen, and the French doors leading to the balcony above the damaged terrace below were closed. The blinds showed no one was outside.
No one home at all.
Then I noticed the bathroom door was shut. Light seeped under the crack along the floor. I closed the apartment door behind me—didn’t want that supersonic cat making a break for it—and crossed the short hall to the bathroom. I heard the rush of a shower running inside, and was the fan running, as well? A man’s voice sang out, some rap song I didn’t recognize. She probably had the radio on, too. No wonder she couldn’t hear me.
I debated waiting. I didn’t want to knock on the bathroom door and startle her—what if the music playing came from an iPhone within reach on the corner of the sink, and she decided to call the police? What I should do, I reasoned, was knock off early for lunch and come back after I had something to eat. Give her time to get out of the shower and get dressed.
But I was already there, I’d dragged the shop vac upstairs, and it would take literally two minutes to clear the a/c line and vacuum up any condensation she’d heard dripping behind the panel. I could be done with it in no time. She’d never even know I’d been inside the apartment until she found the work order I left signed on her counter.
I’d work fast, I assured myself. And if I heard the shower cut off, I’d holler out again so she wouldn’t be surprised to find me in her apartment.
Sounded like a plan to me.
The air conditioning unit was in a maintenance closet inside the apartment’s utility room. I went inside, stepping around a pile of dirty laundry and the cat box on the floor, pulled the shop vac in after me, and shut the door for more room. When I opened the closet, though, I realized too late she used it for additional storage—a broom, an old mop, and a snow shovel leaped out at me like some poorly constructed booby trap. I dodged them aside, catching the mop and broom handles, but the shovel was shorter and I winced as it clattered to the floor. Shit! Was she seriously not hearing this?
I strained to hear through the closed door and yep, the shower was still flowing in full force. All right, fine. I planned to be quick, didn’t I? And already I’d wasted a minute fiddling with broomsticks. I leaned the broom and mop against the side of the washing machine and got to work unscrewing the a/c unit vent. As I was on the last screw, I heard the a/c kick on and I could’ve groaned in frustration. Why hadn’t I cut that off?
It didn’t matter now. Plugging the shop vac into the outlet behind the washer, I leaned into the unit and blew out the line, then vacuumed up the condensation that had pooled on the floor. It was an awkward reach—one of the cooling lines blocked my path, and my arms weren’t long enough to reach all the way inside the unit. The closet was too small to hold my bulk. Easier t
o go around the front of the unit and unscrew the vent in the hallway.
Which was just across from the bathroom door, now that I thought of it.
But I’d be done in a heartbeat. I’d get all the dripping water out of the a/c and the unit would be as good as new, until the line decided to block up again as they tended to.
So I turned off the vac, pausing a moment to listen for the sound of the shower. Yes, it was still running. Good. I pulled myself out of the cramped closet, unplugged the vac, screwed back on the vent cover, shoved everything that had fallen out of the closet back into it, and shut the door quickly before the broom and its friends could jump at me again. Then I opened the door to the utility room, took a step out into the hall, and came face to face with an incredibly sexy—and incredibly naked—wet man.
He rubbed a towel over the top of his head, letting his slim, toned body air dry. Shower spray beaded in the scant tufts of hair on his chest, glistened on his arms and legs. Water ran down chiseled muscles to the V of his crotch, where a fistful of black curls coiled above his heavy dick. I caught a glimpse of his face, nothing more, then couldn’t seem to tear my gaze away from that thick, ruddy, semi-erect cock.
Sweet Jesus. My day just got a whole hell of a lot better.
A faint smile crossed his face. He looked a good ten years younger than myself, college-aged, most likely. The girl’s boyfriend, I guessed. The bathroom door now stood open, steam wafting into the hall, but in the foggy mirror behind him, I didn’t see anyone else in the room. So she’d gone out, to work or school, left him behind, and it had been him I heard singing earlier. In the shower. Lathering up…my gaze trailed down again, hungry, to the dick between his legs.
I cleared my throat, trying to think of something to say. I had wanted to say something earlier, when I heard the shower turn off. I’d been going to say…what, exactly? I couldn’t remember.