Date: Wed, 12 Dec 2018 16:17:32 -0500
From: R. Wolfsham <rwolfsham@gmail.com>
Subject: Lone Star Heat Wave

If you enjoy the tale, I hope you'll want to read more like it in my latest
eBook 'Wild Male' here: http://a.co/d/6qSflDh

---~---

Lone Star Heat Wave

by Rob Wolfsham

---~---

The preacher shepherds the stadium crowd of 12,000 souls, a regular weekend
night for his megachurch of devoted followers.

"God wants you to be rich," his gentle tenor voice booms with a crisp Texan
accent. He walks and talks. "If God loves you, he will bestow his gifts."
HD cameras on gimbles swoop around him. His polished face is projected on
massive screens in the indoor stadium. He walks across floor panel lights
like a disco club or gameshow. A metallic crucifix hangs above a globe
sculpture on the expansive ocean of blue carpet. He approaches a futuristic
metal lectern. "Do not envy your neighbor for his gifts. Learn how they
have fulfilled their contract with God. Some of you out there have work to
do. You've been tempted by sin. You've committed sin."

He holds his hands out, searching through the crops of silhouettes before
and above him. "Flesh. Infidelity. Sodomy." The audience shifts
uncomfortably.

He scolds. "Folks, you're not going to materially gain if you are a
cheater. If you are looking at websites you shouldn't be looking
at. Touching bodies that shouldn't be touched."

The audience applauds obediently. A sea of heads bob or turn side to side
with pride or shame.

"Does it feel like hell out there today?"

The audience murmurs in affirmation.

"I wonder why?" he says with faux-surprise, putting his hands on the hips
of his $8,000 business suit. "I'm standing in a room of sinners."

The audience laughs, applauds harder. Applause turns to cheers. A camera
swoops in toward his handsome polished face. His doe-like blue eyes look
into the black void of the lens. The cheers fade.

"I too have sinned," he says solemnly. Silence. "I beg to be cleansed by
Him in his waters every day. Do you?"

---~---

Fucking August in Houston. 94 degrees, 60 percent humidity. I don't know
what the heat index is from that. Definitely over a hundred in my
truck. Sweat and salt drip down my skin as I drive. I smack an itch on my
neck. My truck smells like ripe ass, dip, and grease. The guys are in a
good mood today because everyone's A/C is clunking out. Calls come in like
a telethon. We do commercial and residential HVAC repair. The sky is not
quite white from the heat and ozone. The sunlight is a white glow from all
around. I just finished sealing some leaky ducts at the Target on the
Eastex Freeway. It's been an easy day so far.

I walk into the office of Lone Star HVAC and Appliance Repair Center and
see Jones and Hernandez lounging next to the water cooler scraping wet
paper towels across their shiny foreheads.

"I forgot my sweater today," I say.

Hernandez grumbles and launches into how he helped install new compressors
on three commercial units on top of the Whole Foods by the mall. He goes on
and on about some lady in the parking lot who was rude to him. The
flatscreen TV above the coffee maker is tuned to that megachurch preacher
Jack Tichy spewing bullshit. He's staring straight into the camera. The
closed-captioning stamped at the bottom just says '--AND HOMOSEXUALS
[applause].' I sneer and grab the remote and switch it to the local news
which shows people dying on sidewalks from heatstroke. That's better. I
scan the last work order on my phone into the barcode reader on the
counter.

Rick, our squirrely little boss with a mile-long goatee, slides me a
residential job toward my hand. This is a big one. It's in 77498. New
Territory. "Try to haul ass," he says. "The end of their waiting window was
over thirty minutes ago."

I wince. "Why'd you wait for me to get back?"

"You see what I'm dealing with here?" Rick jerks his head at Hernandez and
Jones, who look like they're melting in their gray button up shirts.

"Hey fuck you," Jones says. "I got heatstroke."

"You don't have heatstroke, candyass."

Rick smirks and leans on his elbows on the counter, "Look at Grant. Funny
the homo's the only one not acting like a bitch this week."

That shuts the guys up. I smile ear to ear sticking out my long tongue. We
joke like this. When the day is over we'll go to the Dam Ice House on
Highway 6 by the reservoir and get shitfaced. Rick will tell me pervy shit
he's done at nearby Asian spas while Jones, Hernandez and other greasers
drunkenly lament crabby wives, whatever bad poker game or football bet,
their ungrateful kids. They'll tell me I'm lucky I get to fuck ass and get
my dick sucked whenever I want. It's not that easy for us, promise me, I've
heard myself say before.

The guys still like me. I'm a little burly but I'm definitely the fittest
of the bunch. I look grizzly. I keep my red beard and blond hair buzzed
close to my head. People think I'm military a lot of the time. I don't
mind. I've got some tattoos back from when I thought I was tough shit in
high school, barbed wire around my biceps, two coyotes on my forearms, on
my chest a skeleton with red glowing eyes and a rifle. It used to be an SS
soldier with a swastika on the helmet. That was back when I was into trying
to be a skinhead and that moronic shit. I moved away from that. That was a
bad time in my life. I had those parts of the tattoo filled in and covered
up years ago. It's just not who I am now. I wince thinking of the methed
out neo-Nazis who tatted me in some trap house in the backwater east Texas
town where I'm from.

I haul my ass to New Territory, which is this wealthy suburb further west
than Sugar Land. The workorder says it's for LIFEPATH FAMILY VALUES
CONSULTING, LLC. but it's definitely a home address. It takes about 20
minutes to get there through traffic. I get turned around in the maze of
monotonous red and gray McMansions. Every house has two young oak trees
planted in the front yard. Fake lakes and giant spewing fountains dot the
neighborhood. The parks, biking paths and walking trails are empty. No dead
bodies on the sidewalks at least. Everyone is inside. Bitching about their
air conditioner. Ca-ching.

I find my customer's house in a cul-de-sac the size of a small city
block. The house dwarfs its neighbors with grand wings and porticos. It has
a two-story porch and newly planted saplings scattered all over the
football field of a front yard. I park my truck in front of the elaborate
stone mailbox, not wanting to block the white GMC Yukon and black Hummer H3
in the driveway.

When I ring the doorbell, an entire church bell song plays from inside. A
good-looking and somewhat familiar older guy answers the front door halfway
through the doorbell's song. His brown hair is slicked and fluffy with a
side part in that John Ritter-in-the-80's sort of way. It has to be dyed
because it shines even though he has the lined face of a man in his
50's. He looks like Jim Bob Duggar, round face, strong chin and pearly
white teeth when he smiles. He's wearing a collared shirt with the sleeves
rolled up, red and white stripes like a candy cane tucked into pressed
khaki pants. He introduces himself as Jackson Tichy.

Now I recognize him. I've seen his beaming smile on the covers of books and
billboards along highways. He's head of this huge megachurch in Houston. He
notices the surprise in my face and relaxes and sighs, "Yes, I am Jack
Tichy of Bristlepine Church. Thank you for making it out here today."

Vain fucker.

"Grant Dunn of Lone Star HVAC," I say and reach for his hand. Jack
hesitates, holding a fake smile, eyes passing over the coyotes on my
forearms. He shakes my sweaty hand. "I actually just saw you on a TV. So
you're not--"

"Oh we don't do everything live. We really produce and polish a beautiful
gospel. We do our live show the last Sunday of the month." He sounds
impatient or distracted.

I nod. "I would have been here sooner," I say. "I had another call down at
the Target."

"I'm sure," Jack says sarcastically. "It sure is sweltering. Please come
in, come in."

The foyer of his house has a pink marble floor and monolithic biblical
paintings along the stairway and below the balconies--tacky impressionist
paintings of Jesus breaking bread with ridiculous explosions of light
coming from his head. My boots echo off the high ceilings and gaudy crystal
chandelier. It's hot inside, A/C obviously out of commission or maybe
shitty ducts and poor insulation. I can already tell it's a custom-built
Trendmaker or KB Home deluxe palace, a stupid mishmash of architectural
styles and cheap Chinese materials, assembled fast like a Lego set but with
ridiculous markup. This is why we had a housing crisis. And why Jack Tichy
is having problems.

I look around like a kid in a museum. A giant painting of a young man being
baptized in a river catches my attention. An old preacher is holding the
kid's face underwater. It looks violent with white brushstrokes of intense
splashing around the boy's head.

"Are you a congregant?" Jack asks. "You said you were watching me."

"You mean in your church? No. I'm... just a guy."

"Hey that's okay," Jack says with saccharine enthusiasm. "We're all
brothers. Grant, I'm going to ask you to take off your boots. My wife will
go nuts if she sees them on our carpet."

I pause and look at my dirty black boots. I'm not wearing any socks today
for whatever reason. Which means my feet will stink real bad. I'm also sort
of a ginger, and look, we just have funkier smells sometimes. The A/C unit
should be outside so I politely tell him this and he nods of course. He
walks me through the expansive house through a den, kitchen, another living
room, a second kitchen that is more like a bar, and then out a
backdoor. Three Trane A/C units are on the side of the house by a tacky
brass fence. One for all three floors. One is struggling to hum along, the
other two are idle.

 We squint under the white-hot sun. I get on my knees and tell Jack it'll
take me a minute to assess the situation, which is code for leave me
alone. Jack doesn't budge as I unscrew the maintenance cover from the idle
unit. Being close to the grass makes it feel twice as humid on my
face. Jack tries to make small talk about heat-related deaths but praise
Jesus his phone rings. He pulls out a brand-new iPhone and answers,
wandering out a gate.

I see the problem with the A/C, the condenser unit is shot, a part for this
model we don't have so it will have to be ordered. I run into Jack on the
way to the back door. He looks hurried and suddenly irritated with
me. "Grant, I'm afraid I gotta run. Sorry about that. You were a little
late."

"I figured out part of the problem, but I need to look at your ducts."

Jack looks at his watch, then at the house, looking toward the second
floor. "Both my assistants are not home today. This damn heatwave. Well my
son is home." He bites his lip. "I'd hate to reschedule on you." His
saccharine smile returns. "Please stay and work. Just remember, take off
your shoes."

He prances to the parked Hummer H3 and says, "Please let my son know you're
here."

His tank roars off in an unchristian manner. He sounded gayer when he got
flustered, maybe he's your typical Ted Haggard or some shit like that,
preaching by day, smoking meth with twink rentboys by night.

I walk into the house and keep my boots on. A second dining room connects
to the foyer. A family photo sits above the long pine table, bounded on
both sides by two giant wood crucifixes. Jack looks forlorn and fifty
pounds heavier, looking off in the distance with a thousand-yard stare. His
even larger wife has an explosive perm of blonde hair cascading over the
red shoulder pads on her church dress. She looks like a bitch on wheels
from an '80s soap opera. Their son is smiling brightly with braces and a
too-big suit like his father. He looks about 17 with bright sky-colored
eyes and brown shaggy hair. Not a bad looking kid. I wonder how long ago
this was taken.

I'm guessing the son is upstairs since the house is quiet. I head up there
to see the duct work, passing by several hutches with fine China that has
Jesus and thorns and apostles on them, the kind of shit you see on 3
a.m. infomercials. I'm tainting this white pristine house, the white
carpets, the white walls and glowing religious-themed paintings of goats
and bearded men looking at deserts.

I smell like grass and armpit. I fluff my Lone Star HVAC shirt fanning
sweat. I stomp up the stair. The squeak of a water valve from a bathroom
shuts off.

At the second level of the stairs, a walkway splits in two directions over
the living room. A door at the left end of the walkway opens. A teenage boy
walks out wrapped in a towel, dripping wet. His dark hair is longer, down
to his neck. He's got a smooth runner's build, much older looking than the
photo in the dining room. He's tall, more defined like a man. He notices me
frozen on the catwalk staring at him. He darts into a room across the hall,
delicately closing the door.

I feel a pang of awkwardness and realize it's me also getting horny.

"I'm the A/C repair guy," I say loudly down the walkway. "I'll just be up
in the attic."

There's no reply.

I go up to the third floor, find the attic stairs, and discover it's 120
degrees up there. I explore the tangle of aluminum ducts in the darkness
for a few minutes. I'm raining sweat. My feet are sopping around in my
boots. I should have worn socks. I growl and stick a small flashlight
between my teeth and unbutton my shirt all the way. The insulation is a
disaster and the main A/C duct is splitting open. This will be a big job
for such a big house. I can't take the heat anymore and head back to the
second floor.

I fold up the attic stairs and when I look down from the door, the boy is
standing a few feet in front of me. He's still a little wet and wearing
black boxer-briefs. My hairy chest is gleaming with sweat. The red-eyed
skeleton soldier on my chest stares at him. He stares back at the grinning
skull. My crotch feels wet.

He inspects me and says, "So is this something you'll be able to fix today?
I've taken two showers today. I'm dying."

I wipe my face with one side my shirt. It doesn't really help. The kid
sounds gay, lisping, soft-spoken.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" I ask. My eyes roam his body. He's tan,
thin. His stomach looks strong, slight happy trail.

"I'm home-schooled."

Oh Christ. I scratch the nest of hair on my chest. He doesn't seem bothered
that I'm a stranger standing here, shirt unbuttoned. "I think we can do
this today," I say. "But I got a lot to do."

"When today?" he asks impatiently. His eyes dart to my crotch, the movement
almost obscured by two quick blinks.

"If we can get the parts from another supplier in the city then before the
night. No promises though. How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"I'm Grant," I say.

"Stephen," he says. I realize he lisps a little because he still has
braces. They're kind of a turn on in a weird way. I'm crumbling with lust,
but feign confidence, raising my chin, letting my shirt come further apart
around my sides. I don't have abs, more brawny definition, muscles I
actually use, not just show. I hate that I'm a pasty white fucker. I just
burn in the sun instead of tan. Fuck redhead genes. This boy is what I
want. Shaggy brown hair covers his left eye like this one emo twink I
picked up at this club Numbers and fucked the hell out of. Except this boy
is pure, no tattoos, no piercings. My boner is screaming against my briefs.

"So, you took a shower?" It's obvious my mind is spinning on the
image. "That sounds nice."

"You look like you're going to pass out," he says. "It's fine if you take
one, too."

I'm knocked back for a second. This kid might be evil. The rubber grip for
my toolbox gets so sweaty it slips from my hand and crashes to the carpet,
tools exploding everywhere.

I bend down and growl, scooping up bits. I'm supposed to be smooth. This
boy has me tripped up. He knows what he's doing. Or maybe it's a Christian
naivety? Unintentionally covering some subconscious pull to get me naked,
his id screaming for cock.

"Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling," he says
matter-of-factly, watching me scoop tools off the carpet.

"What?"

"It's from Peter. My dad says it a lot."

"Oh, the Bible." I stand, huffing.

"Are you a Christian?" he asks, scanning the evil looking tattoo on my
chest and the rabid coyotes on my arms.

I think about ripping the guy's boxers off and pounding his ass right here
in the carpet. "No."

"What do you have faith in then?" he asks in that tip of the iceberg way.

"I worship Satan."

His head turns askance a little, smooth pink lips curled with uncertainty,
revealing a peek of his braces as he scans my evil tattoos again. He
smirks. "That's funny."

"Yeah, c'mon. I'm just an atheist."

He smiles with that let me take you in love and starts to extol the
strength of his father and the strength Jesus gives him and the strength
the Bible imparts on our souls and the strength of my muscles thrusting my
dick in his ass. My brain threw in that last part, because the boy is in
fucking boxers and I'm a sweaty hormonal bull and I'm not really listening
to him. But I let him go on about the God thing. I discover the paper-thin
line between Baptist witnessing and trying to bed someone. Someone has to
stop the Jesus-go-round so I remind him about the shower.

"I know it's probably weird or against some rule, but that would help," I
say.

"Of course, brother. The bathroom is down here."

Brother. Kinky.

The bathroom is the size of my living room with a glass shower and a
Jacuzzi tub in front of a large Monticello window facing the backyard with
a view of one of those fake lakes in the distance with an ejaculating
fountain. The room is steamy like a greenhouse because it's on the side
facing the afternoon sun.

I ignore the shower and start filling the tub. I strip to nothing. Stephen
doesn't move. I turn around and sit on the rim of the Jacuzzi tub facing
him, legs spread. My seven-inch boner stands tall. It's a fine redhead
dick, pearly white pole, bright pink head. My fire crotch fans up my navel
and stomach into a hairy T crossing over the skeleton soldier tattoo and my
pecs. I grip the sides of the tub beside me, coyotes on my forearms
watching the boy. I lean back a little, shrugging as the tub fills and
gurgles.

He has a look of biblical consternation, crusade and martyrdom glistening
through two blue eyes. His Adam's apple moves like he would say something,
but he walks out the bathroom door.

Smooth Grant. Maybe I misread him, treated this too much like I was
cruising someone at a sex club. Those guys know what they want as much as I
do. Stephen has a few more ancient variables.

The tub thrashes with mildly cool water and I sink in to my chin. Muscles
unwind. I stroke my dick thinking of Stephen's smooth navel and likely
smooth ass bouncing on my balls. I start to feel crazy, the HVAC guy taking
a bath in a client's house, Jack Tichy's house no less, and that I just
exposed my cock to his 18-year-old son.

Several minutes pass and the door cracks open, a phone held in a hand
peeking through the opening.

"Your phone is ringing," Stephen says meekly. It must have come off my belt
clip when I was picking up my tools.

"Give it here," I command.

There's no movement for a few seconds. Then he enters looking past me out
the window, holding the phone out. He's wearing track pants, no
shirt. Sunlight through the window makes his tan skin glow. The phone is no
longer vibrating. The tub is so large it takes me a few seconds to scoot to
the edge toward him. I take the phone and it says one missed call from
Rick. I lay it on the side of the tub.

"Feels great," I say. "You must be spoiled by this."

He says nothing and starts to walk out.

Impatience and horniness surges through my spine. "Wait, I--."

"Don't take too long," he says cutting me off. "My dad will be home."

I say nothing for a few seconds, mind rushing like the jets of water around
my back. I scoot back in the tub. "Help me be clean."

He takes an eternity to think. I almost say something again but he reaches
for the edge of his track pants and gingerly slides them down his legs. He
has a pasty ass with a fading tan line at his hips. He turns around: dark
bush, large flaccid cock, dangling balls. His cock is just as big as
mine. His skinny legs climb into the tub. There's enough room in here for
four grown men. I spread my feet. He sits across from me for me for a
minute in silence. We stare at each other. He glances at the distorted view
of my hard cock under the churning water. The tub motor hums. We sit like
this for at least thirty seconds. I reach for a loofah from the brass bin
next to the tub and soap it up. I casually scrub myself. Stephen watches. I
turn and struggle to reach for my back. He twitches and swims over to me,
taking the loofah. He scrubs around my muscular back. He's barely applying
any pressure, but it feels good. I turn toward him, reaching for his
leg. He latches onto me and hugs, curling up under my neck. His body is
shaking.

My hands gently caress his ribs. My fingertips run down his vertebrae. He
twists against me, arms shivering harder. I put my lips on his hair, not
kissing, just mouthing his mane on the top of his head. His dick hardens
against my hairy taint until it prods at my asshole with each one of his
twists. I haven't bottomed in years. I'm a take charge guy. But right now
I'd let this boy discover ass, what evils lay inside.

I lift him by his sides out of the water. He really is blessed with a large
tool, seven inches and thick. It is actually slightly thicker than mine,
which makes me feel funny for a second. I take his gift in my mouth,
tightening my lips and tongue around the head and shaft as much as I
can. It could be his first blowjob, so I want to spoil him. I go straight
for deep throating. He pants and shudders, unprepared for my chin stubble
grinding his balls. He loses his grip in the tub and slips under water. I
grab his shoulders and yank him back up. He's coughing and spitting
water. I laugh. My first baptism.

He jolts from my grip and jumps out of the tub. I think he's freaking out
and this is the end of it, but he kicks his bunched up track pants aside
and grabs a towel off the rack and lays it out on the checkered tile. He
lies down, spreading his legs. Then he's perfectly still, holding his arms
straight at his sides, fists clenched. His dick bobs straight up, straining
at the upper limit of an erection. I jump out of the tub and climb over
him, water slopping off of me. Beads of water cover his chest which rises
and falls each second. Water drips off of me and onto him. He looks
straight up at the ceiling and doesn't blink.

I press my face low to the floor between his thighs, rubbing against the
towel until my nose digs under his balls and lifts them up. I get a fresh
soapy smell and a tone of ass musk. He's got a fuzz of black hair around
the rim of his hole. I lick his taint from his hole up to his balls, long
and sloppy, a big long dog lick, diving back down to tickle his hole with
my tongue. He groans. I spread his cheeks and lift his legs and ass off the
towel. I get a look at his pink hole and dive back in, jamming my tongue in
him.

"What are you doing?" he moans. He didn't expect this. I don't think he
even knew someone would do this kind of Satanic tongue pleasuring to his
insides. I chuckle into his ass. I'm gifted with a long tongue. I thrust my
whole taster through the tight ring of his sphincter and fuck him with
it. Slamming my face in and out. He grunts each time. His virgin hole opens
more and more. I grab his dick and pump a glob of precum over my fingers. I
jack him and replace my tongue with an index finger, slipping it easily
into his saliva drenched hole.

He clenches the towel in his fists and tilts his head back, arching off the
floor. He squirms from side to side, wet hair tossing over one eye. I put
my lips on the head of his cock and slobber on it. I jack him and shove my
finger all the way in his ass to the base. I feel around his hot pulsing
prostate, gently milking it. In the HVAC business this is called giving
someone the works.

Stephen lets out a whimper, chest arching up, relaxing, arching up
again. He writhes around in heat. My throat chokes down on his gifted cock
again. I turn my index finger over his prostate, pushing it up a little,
massaging rapidly with fast almost vibrating flicks. I don't think he'll
last much longer. His sphincter pulses around the base of my finger. His
breathing goes spastic and he pounds the floor with his fists still
clenching the towel. Cum splatters against my lips just as I'm pulling out
suckling the head. I moan in encouragement, diving down again, jacking the
base of his dick furiously, his balls bouncing to my chin. The back of my
tongue pumps his frenulum. His seed fills my mouth. I swallow it down, so
pleased at the thought that I'm the first person to ever do this for him.

I pump and suck him dry and pull my finger out as slow as possible. The
pinch of his tight ass is cutting off my circulation. He jolts as my
fingertip slips out.  I stroke his balls gently like a chin. He is
shuddering, still not looking at me. I feel like I've done something really
bad for a second but he makes a hint of a smile, braces glistening.

A home security panel on the bathroom wall beeps twice indicating the front
door has just opened.

Stephen's smile vanishes and he darts to his feet snatching up his track
pants. "You can't be in here," he barks under his breath.

Well fuck.

"Stephen?" a Texan voice calls from the stairs. It's Tichy. "A/C guy? I'm
home."

Stephen runs past the tub and unlatches the Monticello window. It opens out
like a door. Are you fucking kidding me? I grumble and yank on my jeans,
pushing my boner down and zipping up.

"I'm sorry," Stephen hushes.

There's a knock on the door and the boy's tan disappears. "Stephen, are you
in here?"

Fuck! I look out the window and see an unforgiving red brick façade
all the way down about thirty feet to the grass. There's an oak tree but
it's too far and too young to support me. There are small ledges and
footholds where the bricks form stylized trimmings on the house.

There's no time. I climb out backwards in just my jeans, hanging onto the
edge of the window. My bare feet touch a hot brick ledge below. It's about
five inches wide. The thought of falling and breaking my neck crosses my
mind and I think about climbing back into the bathroom to face Jack
Tichy. I have no reason to fear him. What's the most he could do? Well, I
guess accuse me of raping his son. He's rich and famous enough to legally
smote me and probably Lone Star HVAC, too. Or would he even think that?
Could I just say, oh yeah I've been climbing out here looking at
ventilation ducts or something. I always climb up to the second floor of
houses without a ladder or safety equipment. We don't have to worry about
union rules in Texas. Sure. Why am I not wearing a shirt? Or shoes? Because
I'm a wild nature man who needs cheap thrills in his life. Kind of like
sucking your son's dick.

Something whooshes over my head. My boots. Then my shirt. Then my
toolbox. I cringe. The tools crash on the grass far below with one loud
crunch. I hear the bathroom door open and Jack says, "Why are you taking a
bath in the middle of the day?"

"Dad, I was hot, okay?"

I worry about Stephen for a second, but now I'm actually pissed, pissed
enough that I climb down to the top ledge of a first-floor window. I
eventually make it to the grass after a trembling minute, motivated by the
thought of Jack coming outside and seeing me like this.

On the ground, I pull my gray Lone Star HVAC uniform shirt down from a low
tree branch and frantically put it on and button it up. I shove my feet
into my boots. I scrape tools into my toolbox along with clumps of grass.

Jack Tichy comes around the corner of the house, power walking. My heart
leaps at the sight of him barging toward me. I stand up straight.

"There you are," he says impatiently. "I'm glad I was able to come back. I
wanted a progress report before you left."

He stops and stares at me like I'm missing an arm. My shirt has leaves
stuck in it. My jeans are covered in grass stains. I wipe my lips, paranoid
there might be left over cum from his son on me.

"You're soaking wet!" he cries.

I nod.

His face twists with genuine bewilderment. "Grant, you look like you're
having a heat stroke. Please come inside. Have a glass of water."

He starts walking and I shuffle after him uncertainly, a jumble of words
caught in my throat, something between "sure" and "thank you."

He looks back at me, scanning my disheveled, tired, still horny body. His
eyes narrow with something more than concern, some curious conflicting
possibility. "If you'd like... maybe you need a nice cleansing shower?"

---~---

Hope you liked this one. Read more erotic stories by me in my latest eBook
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