Since they don’t head to college, they often need cash, and since they grow up in families that drink and half-neglect them, they’re more open to risk. He twisted so adorably on his booted feet, his eyes almost grinning in curiosity, his face working hard to be unreadable and unflinching like that dad or uncle or step-dad he’d watched all his life. Can I ask you a strange question?” I’m making a calendar, see? A calendar of rural, All-American males, “and I really think you’d be perfect for July.” Then I cocked my head thoughtfully–I mean, this works every time, seriously–and said, “Huh. There I “bumped” into him and pretended I thought he was someone else. I shamelessly hung around downtown until he left work and trailed him to the Walmart. I knew then that he could be mine–not publicly, of course, but inside, where it counted. Not a lot of the young men head to college around here, and he was definitely the type who’d probably live and die in this town. I looked across Main Street, and there he was, working at the pump and drill company. Then came that brilliant Tuesday in June when I was getting my oil changed. I’ve got a soft spot for guys from his tribe, and he was one of the cutest, so faithfully wearing the Trumper uniform he inherited from dear ol’ dad: sleeveless tees, dirty caps, workman’s jeans. Like begets like, I thought, but don’t take that as being too judgmental. I’d seen him around town before that day, cruising the courthouse square with his buddies in one Ford pick-up or another, calling to girls on the sidewalk, throwing trash out the window. Once another guy’s cum gets on you, you’re on the way to all the way. I did, though, let a few spurts land on those perfect buns. It had already been a wild day for him, I imagine, probably the wildest he’d ever had, so he already had plenty enough to process without me actually claiming his hole.
I just rubbed it along his crack until I cummed. Maybe, instead of letting him sleep, I’ll wake him up and fuck him just one more time. I enjoy the role (and the roll), otherwise I wouldn’t do it. He’s part of the life I’ve chosen, I guess. Yeah, I’ll be his refuge from the life he’s chosen, for a bit. I sometimes wonder if he fucks her the same days I fuck him or not. And it will be okay, he’ll say, “Had to work late,” and then it will be another night of spaghetti or baked chicken followed by rough house games, Netflix, and an early night.
So he’s due home in about an hour, and now … I’ll let him be about a half hour late.
He cuddles like no puppy you’ve ever had, and his ability to serve a man’s cock–I don’t know who taught him how to suck dick, but whoever it is, I salute you. Sometimes the guy practically cums just from me rubbing that hot, no-longer-still-a-jock-but-not-quite-yet-a-dad-bod bod. That is, I will gladly kneel behind his sweet ass and fuck him for as long as he wants me to.Īnd boy, does he want me to. This life of his, it’s the life that life’s given him in part, and that he’s chosen in part, and he’s decent enough to stand by his promises–mostly–and so, I figure, I can stand with him all that, love him as he comes to me, enjoy him, and then move on. You leave it there, let it grow as it is, and love it. No asshole actually wades into the pond and picks the lily pad out of its environs. I love the guy, the way you love a lily pad. But I don’t see it that way, and not just because he’s an eager fuck, or because his ass is the tightest piece I’ve ever had. People would call him a hypocrite, married to a woman, going to mass every Sunday, raising five kids to be hetero-normative breeders like him, and all the while slipping away to get naked with me and be my little Honey Bunny. Not many men would appreciate him like I do–I know that.
It’s almost 4:45, and rush hour will be a serious bitch for him, but I think I’ll let him sleep.