We didn't make it upstairs. Not right away.
First there was the hallway. The same dark, narrow passage we'd walked through from the street just over an hour ago. But this time we came from the living room. And this time a strong hand on the end of a stronger arm pushed me from behind, up against the wall.
I hit the smooth, cold surface hard, but managed to get my hands up to brace myself just in time. My body thudded painlessly against brick and plaster and wallpaper as my shorts and briefs were dragged back down to my ankles, fabric whispering over hair and muscle en route.
A single word left his mouth, no less than a foot from my ear. The three syllables echoed in the quiet of the house, deep and masculine and hypnotising, floating on the sticky, salty heat of our bodies.
I didn't need to look behind to know what he was looking at. What he was thinking. What he wanted. Now done with my throat Mr. Price's fingers needed a new hole to play with. I wasn't complaining.
`All yours, sir,' I said, twisting my neck to look into his searing eyes; my back arching and pushing my naked arse towards him all by itself.
Not that I was surprised by my automatic manoeuvre. In that moment my arse was all his. Every curve. Every inch of tight and soft-where-it-counts muscle. All of it. Because even though I'd maintained a strict grooming standard to ensure nothing but a smooth welcome at all times, it had been too long since I'd had a visitor.
My ginger wannabe-boyfriend James had been great fun. And still was. My balls still twitched every time I thought about the flawless white cheeks on his face turning red as I'd pulled the ones below apart and stretched his hole open harder and deeper. But he was a hungry bottom. He was far too busy dealing with what I had to give to dish it back out.
Adam was my last top. Two-and-a-half weeks ago. And as you can imagine, after getting ruthlessly pounded on all fours by the captain of the rugby team on his parents' bed, by now I was craving cock up my arse like an addict out of rehab.
What was surprising, however, was what happened next. Not Mr. Price pinning me against the wall as his free hand traced the ridge of muscle down my back and over my bare arse cheeks. Or the sound of saliva gathering or the clap of it landing in his palm or the warm wetness of him smearing it over my hole. It's how he did it. How he fingered me.
He was good. Very good.
I'd had guys like Mr. Price before. Recently turned or in the process of. They were often the easiest to find online. Always eager to explore the new them. Their dirty, filthy, sinful dark side raring to have its way with this blue-eyed, teenage twink. But a couple, quite understandably, had been a little hasty. A little too rough. A little too impatient. Used to a self-lubricating hole and unaccustomed to the potential of searing pain an untrimmed nail or overenthusiastic finger away.
And yes, I was prepared to be biased. Somewhat forgiving of Mr. Price. Especially after dreaming and fantasising and praying this very scene would happen ever since I'd learned how to wank. And yes, after spending the evening tying me up with his trainer lace before skull fucking me to within an inch of my life, you can't blame me for thinking the guy would be verging on ravenous.
But as he wrapped his left arm under my armpit and around my pecs and held me into his body, his mouth and tongue lapping hungrily against my ear, his right hand was adept. Expertly capable with a blissful balance of both care and carnal desire.
His finger was slow. Steady. Well lubricated by a perfect combination of his spit and my sweat. It pushed inside of me like it belonged there. Curled and flicked like it knew the terrain as well as the back of the hand it was attached to. Then one finger became two. Middle joined by index. I had no choice but to surrender to his strength and skill, arching my back as far as I could to let him reach deeper as my pre-cum dribbled down, staining the papered walls.
`You're so fucking good at this,' I said.
`Just you wait, boy,' he said pushing so hard a short, sharp gasp forced itself out of my mouth and my head lulled back onto his shoulders.
Lifting my arms, I hung off his bicep wrapped around my chest. Dug my fingertips into the hard, tensed muscles of his forearm. Relaxed my body against his wide, well-built pecs. Turned my neck even more and found his lips. We kissed fast and deep. Our tongues dancing to the rhythm of his fingers.
Then he pulled out. Spanked my arse cheek as my hole shut tight. Squeezing me even closer he reached around my torso. Both arms around me. Found my mouth and made me clean his fingers. I tasted amazing.
`Upstairs,' he said, ten seconds later.
We still didn't make it to the bedroom.
Next was the upstairs landing. Just your average, bog-standard rectangular-ish, first-storey landing. Carpeted with a thin layer of worn fibres. Probably once red or burgundy, now a dull brown, but clean and maintained. Three closed doors stood east, north and west at the top of the stairway. A bathroom and two bedrooms, I'd assumed.
I didn't get a chance to find out. My shorts and briefs in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs next to my socks and trainers, I'd taken the steps slowly. Leading the way again. Lifting my shirt, my last piece of clothing, above my head as he'd followed.
My arse, almost level with his face. My back, muscled but slender. Young and flawless. It had been too much for him. He'd pushed me again. Right at the top. Bent me over the last few stairs, exactly like I'd done to James only days ago.
For a split-second I wondered what James was up to. All alone in that big manor house in the good part of town. He would definitely have text me by now. Staring at his phone and wondering why I hadn't showed like I'd said I would. Not that I could find out if I wanted to. My phone was at home. My front door key safely nestled in the zip pocket of my shorts was the only thing I'd taken with me on my run.
Then I forgot all about James. As quickly as he'd popped into my head: an instant. Two huge hands landed on my arse. A cheek each. They pulled away from each other and held me open, forcing me back to reality.
He held my arse apart for three seconds. Just long enough for him to take in the view and for a waft of cool air to tickle my wet crack. Long enough for me to smile to myself. I'd seen what was coming next a mile off.
He'd been desperate to eat me out downstairs. I knew it! After he'd pulled his finger out and spanked me. Obviously with my face to the wall I hadn't been able to see, but I'd sensed him look down. I'd felt his body momentarily freeze behind me, like he was contemplating something, before giving it up. A part of me thought he'd pussied out. That maybe he hadn't explored far enough into his dark side yet to upgrade fingers to lips and mouth and tongue.
But now I knew better. It was simple really. Downstairs in the hall, there wasn't enough room.
At six-foot I'm not exactly the smallest of boys. And at six-foot-three and built like the rugby coach he was, it would have been a tight fit. He could have done it, of course. Got on his knees and gone to town as I'd pushed off the wall and shoved my arse into his head. But at that angle your neck gives out before either of you have had your fill.
With half my body now flat on the carpet and the rest inclined down, the position couldn't be beat. He could grind his tongue and lips and stubble in and around my hole as much as he wanted. He did.
For how long I don't know. I couldn't think of anything else other than the sounds of him sucking and slurping and the feeling of pure submission as he pulled at my arse and buried his face and nose as deep as he could. The smell of clean but old carpet filling my nostrils. The dull, coppery taste of my hole still tingling on my tongue. I was in heaven.
Now and again I would look back. My whole body would shudder and tense. Pleasure and excitement would take hold and the hairs on my neck and shoulders and back would stand on end at the sight of the hunger and awe in his eyes. His shaved head never looking better than there between my cheeks. His huge arms like glorious wings either side of his powerful shoulders.
`I've got to take you to the bedroom,' he said pulling his head back before pushing himself in a press-up motion up to standing.
`What's wrong with right here, sir?' I said, twisting my body to find his towering figure reaching out a hand. `You can fuck me wherever you want.'
`No. Not here. Come on,' he said.
Shrugging, I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and hauled myself up. Me completely naked. Him fully dressed, three steps below. Facing each other. My cock, long and hard and straight, poking him in the stomach.
He smiled. Raised his eyebrows. Excitement flickered across the two blue-ringed spheres below. But a different kind of excitement. Not the kind I'd just watched. It was like I was looking at a big kid itching to show off a new toy.
`What?' I said.
`You'll like my bedroom.'
Turning I said nothing. Didn't have an answer. For the first time that night I had doubt instead. Not about fucking him. Not in a million years. Just what he said. I would like his bedroom. Yeah right. Going by the state of the rest of his house there would need to be a leather sling and a live-in, donkey-dicked houseboy carrying a golden tray of weed to make up for the serious lack of style and comfort.
Three seconds and a click of a dimmer switch later, however, I realised I was very wrong.
`Wow,' I said as more light bathed the scene in front of me.
`But, the rest of the house.'
`Is a shit hole, I know. Since she left I've been doing the place one room at a time. This one seemed like the obvious first choice. Too many bad memories. You like it?'
`It's fucking sexy.'
And it was sexy. It was dark and masculine and spacious and contemporary. Like walking into a magazine spread about some famous architect at home.
Polished oak floorboards. A ceiling, stripped back to reveal sturdy beams slicing the space above into ten narrow sections of white plaster and dark tan wood. Every expensive surface from the sturdy wardrobe to the full length mirror, spotless and shining in the light from twisted bulbs inside stylish dark grey shades.
The bed, of course, was the main event. A huge king, covered in expensive white sheets and plush white pillows. Flanked either side by bedside tables on skinny, tapered legs supporting sophisticated lamps. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind anymore. I definitely liked his bedroom.
I liked it for the obvious reasons. Soon I would be on those sheets. Rolling around like a pig in shit with the man of my dreams buried nine inches inside of me. But I liked it more because in a fleeting, abstract way I could relate to it. It didn't belong here. Not in this house. Not in this part of town. Not in this town full stop.
`You alright?' he said, now shirtless.
Looking his hairy, phenomenal body up and down, I smiled. Thought about him being caught by his wife in this room. And how later, piecing his life back together, he'd gutted it. Recreated it in his stunning image. I nodded my head towards the bed.
`Excellent. Let's make some new memories.'
To be continued ...
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Copyright Jack Ladd 2016
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