He pulled out of me slowly. It took me a moment to realize he was done; that he’d cum in me.
We were on the stairs. I was, anyway. He’d stood behind me on the tile floor. I looked around, saw his flagging, glossy cock. I backed away too, realized my knees were rubbed raw from the coarse carpeting. I stood up, turned and faced him.
He was already pulling his pants off the back of a chair. He’d worn no briefs. I discovered that when I first sank to my knees to suck him, make him hard. It didn’t take much. He was here to fuck and that was it.
I asked him if he wanted a drink. One for the road. He said no, he had to get going. Home to the wife I guessed. I’ll clean you off, I offered. I went to the sink, wet a towel and came back over to wipe the lube from his cock. His pants were already half up. He was in a hurry. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.
I wiped my ass, my crack as well. Found my panties on the floor and pulled them on. I led him to the door. Asked him if he’d like to come back. He mumbled something. It sounded noncommittal.
After his car backed out of the driveway I went to the fridge to get a drink. A flavored vodka from the freezer. The dog was barking at the door. The door to the garage. I’d forgotten about him.
When I let him in he jumped; bounded on me. He was happy to see me. The exact opposite of my just-departed lover. If only humans were like dogs, I thought.
I went over to the kitchen counter where two twenties and a ten lay under a salt shaker. I fondled the bills, proudly, before stuffing them in a ceramic container, a tall cylinder, at the back of the counter. Other bills were underneath. I think a grand total now of something like $400.
I sat down and opened my laptop to check the personals and see if anyone else was coming over tonight. Potentially, that is. You never know for sure. Sometimes they commit but never show. The fakers, that is.
It was eight pm. A guy wanted to know if I’d been fucked tonight. He wanted, he claimed, to eat my ass. Eat me then shoot his own load in.
I informed him I had. I’d just been fucked and the guy had deposited his sperm deep inside me. A big load, I told him.
He replied back almost instantly. He wanted to eat me, he repeated. Eat me then fuck me. He asked for my address.
He told me he could be there in an hour. Lived in the next county, but. He also told me I had a sweet ass and a nice pair of balls. He said he wanted to feel them as he ate me. He claimed he had a week’s load. He wanted to empty it in me. He also liked my panty pic, he said. He said when he got there he wanted me to bend over in front of him in my panties. Then he’d pull them down and put his lips and tongue to my crack; to my anus.
I encouraged him to come over. I’d be waiting for him. He said he was going to jump in the shower then head out.
My heart was racing again. I checked the rest of my post replies–nothing, really–then went upstairs to make the bed. I would need to bend over for him in bed wouldn’t I? The great thing about this was I wouldn’t have to clean myself up. He wanted me dirty; used. The smell of residual lube filling his nostrils. And the fainter smell of my ass. As he ate me I would get hard, then when he put it in me–his cock–I would go soft again.
I went in the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Combed my longish hair. Then I went back downstairs and poured myself another drink. A drinkeypoo they called it at the bar I frequented. Cherry flavored vodka. I met men there too.
Now I had an hour to kill. Fiftyfive minutes. I paced.
Had I made it clear to this newbie that my rate was fifty dollars? For a fuck? It said so right in the body of my ad. And then again at the bottom:
An Hour’s Pleasure – $50
Spend the Night (unlimited pleasure) – $100
No one ever opted for the latter, and I’d thought about removing it. Fifty minutes.
I turned on the TV. My hands were shaking, slightly.
He would walk in the door and say, I love the panties. Then he might force me against the wall and fondle me in them. Squeeze ’em. I liked that.
I would offer him a drink. He might or might not take it. Like the guy who’d just left, he might want to get right down to business.
Let’s go upstairs, I’ll say.
What’s up there?
My bedroom.
Is that where the last guy fucked you.
No. We fucked here on the stairs.
On the stairs?
Yeah. Right here.
I never heard of that.
(Laughter) Me neither. Until just a little while ago.
He’ll climb after me to the bedroom, maybe pinching my pantied ass in the process. Nice, he’ll say. Great legs, too. You shave ’em.
I shave everything.
I turn on the bedroom light, dim it. Is this OK? I’ll ask.
Is what OK?
Doing it here?
Where else we gonna do it?
(On the stairs, I’ll think. Before realizing the improbability of it.)
He’s undressing. Stepping out of his pants.
You want me to suck you? I’ll ask.
I want to eat your ass. Get on the bed.
Sure.
I kneel in bed’s center on my elbows and knees. I spread them. He’s naked now. He climbs on behind me. A hand fondles my smooth, smallish balls. He gives them a squeeze.
He then puts a hand on each of my cheeks. Grasps them; spreads them. His lips press into my crack. He kisses my anus. Pushes his tongue in. It goes in easily. He rims it around, probes deeper. As deep as it will go. Does he taste sperm?
He pulls out. Repeats the whole thing again. My hole is a gourmet treat for him. He kisses, licks, tongues me. Repeat.
Between my legs I can see his erection. It’s standing straight up. He has a nice one. Not long but thick. Circumcised. Like the last guy.
I think about the fifty dollars under the salt shaker.
I can’t wait for him to put it in me, his cock. His tongue is getting old.
He tries to put it in me without lube. I reach over–over to the bedtable–and hand him the K-Y.
He tells me, as if I didn’t know, he’s going to fuck me now. Wants to fuck me.
My hole’s still dilated. He’ll slide right in. Fuck me for however long. A short time, I bet. Shoot his sperm and then back off the bed and get dressed.
A double load in me now, some of it might leak out. Run down my crack, my balls. Drip to the bed.
I’ll get up, run to the bathroom, a hand under my crack. Wipe myself clean, wipe off his cock. He’s in a hurry. I’ll follow him down the stairs.
I’ll ask, Was that OK? Did you have fun?
He’ll mumble some inarticulate reply. He’ll leave. I’ll pour myself another vodka. Open the garage door.
The dog will rush in, jump against me, his nails scraping my thighs. Why can’t humans be dogs?
It’s 9:20. No one. Faker!