I Showed Him My House; He Showed Me His Tent

Sunday.  Cleaning one of my rental houses; a little jewel box of a place with a loft instead of a bedroom.  It was the royal jewel in my crown, until these tenants - the first to live there - left it trashed.  It makes me sad when good homes are treated badly.

Saturday afternoon was spent cleaning, too. Six hours.  All by myself.  I rewarded myself by stripping naked and jerking off in front of the full length mirror in the study area.  Eh.

Sunday?  Another six hours.  So much to do.

 My business partner hired this guy across the street to clean up the tiny front yard, which has been trashed by the tenant’s two giant dogs.  The backyard?  They ignored and the weeds come up to above my waist.  This lawn guy is a talker, not a worker, and he keeps wanting to chat, but I make it clear I am not interested.  I have too much to do.

Two hours in, my business partner shows up to meet a man who is going to trim up a tree in the backyard.  My business partner is a real talker and wants to talk, but I keep working.  The tree guy arrives and they go off to discuss a plan of action.

Soon, all I have left to do is the basement.  The tenants kept their dogs locked down there during the day, so the tiny space reeks of wet dog fur.  Before starting, I head out to the trash can to dump some debris.

A nice looking black dude saunters by, asking about the house.  He’s 5’10, my age, nicely built, with a goatee and an interesting scar across his right cheek.   With the exception of the scar, he reminds me of guitarist George Benson circa 1980.

The dude is a fast talker, aggressive, and demanding.  He wants to see the house.  However, there’s something shifty about him and my spidey-senses are instantly activated.  Something doesn’t feel right.  What is this guy up to?

He’s dressed like a golfer – loafer-style sneakers, no socks, long white shorts in a large plaid pattern, and a polo shirt. 

He insists on seeing the place, even though I tell him it’s not ready and that I may already have it rented.

He tells me he owns a pet grooming shop around the corner and that he has a cousin moving up from Louisiana that is looking for a house.   I shrug and invite him in.

I start showing him the place and he begins… showing me something, too.  He keeps grabbing the crotch of his shorts and pulling on his dick through the material. Initially, I don’t read anything into it.  He immediately falls in love with the place and starts talking about renting it for himself.  I remind him that I probably already have it rented, but he pays me no mind. 

He keeps grabbing his crotch, which I keep catching out of the corner of my eye.   He does this throughout the tour of the upstairs.   It gets to the point where he’s tenting something fierce and I suddenly imagine myself getting down on my knees, undoing those shorts and swallowing him whole. 

Oh… and it’s not a little tent.

As Mr. Tent is climbing up and down the ladder to the loft, I check out his ass.  It’s nice.  He has nice calves, too.  When he gets back down to the main floor, and dismounts, I find myself standing really close to him.  I invite him to check out the basement.  As I turn to go, I rather purposely let the back of my hand fall and graze the head of his tent.  I don’t look or wait for a reaction; I just do it and keep moving as if it is an accident.  In front of the bathroom, he stops and asks a question.  I stop short, turn, and answer before whipping around to continue to the basement.  As I do, again, I lightly graze the tip of his dick with the back of my hand.

My heart and mind are both racing.   Even with the workers outside and one of my business partners on the property, I still imagine unsheathing this dude’s dick and giving him a deepthroat wonder in the confines of the basement. 

The basement is small. He’s very concerned about flooding and waterproofing, all the while grabbing his moneymaker.  Nervous as hell, I explain all the work to be done yet and suddenly want to flee.  He’s standing very close to me, so, yet again; I turn and brush his dick with the back of my hand. 

I am playing coy.  I am being careful.  I am weirded out and turned on at the same time.

We exit the basement.  He asks for a phone number so he can follow up with me.   I oblige, giving him my private cell number.  As we come up the steps my business partner and the tree guy are coming in to take a walk around.    Soon Mr. Tent is chatting up my business partner and I switch focus to the tree guy.  But soon they both depart, leaving me alone with Mr. Tent.  I’m pretty sure he probably cooled his little dick-grabbing act while the other two men were in the house, but I don’t know.  He pokes his head in the bathroom and I decide it’s time to find out where we stand. 

I take this opportunity to bend over at the waist and rewind a vacuum cleaner cord.  It’s a little awkward, but I manage to make it seem casual.   I stay in this position until I know Mr. Tent has gotten an eyeful.  Then I stand, turn around and we say our goodbyes.  As we do, he grabs his crotch again and tells me that he may want to come back later for a better look.  Will I be around?  I explain that I will – that I’ll be cleaning until 6:00 pm, but then have to be elsewhere.

He winks, goes outside, says goodbye to my business partner, and then walks past me as I stand in the door.  He looks at me and says, “I’ll see you later.”  I smile and casually grab my crotch.   He nods and shoots me a big grin as he walks away.

Two minutes later, my cell rings.  It’s him.  “You gonna be alone in the house later?  What time you there ‘til?  You a bottom?”  I answer his questions and then he tells me.  “Okay, I’ll let you know when I can get back there.  We gonna need some lube.”  I tell him that I got it covered.  (Situations like this are what my road kit is for.)  I tell him to do me ‘doggy’ and make me his bitch.

During the next hour, I clean furiously.  My business partner, the tree guy, and the lawn guy take off.

Mr. Tent is texting me something fierce.  He proposes a three-way with my business partner.  I explain why that is never going to happen and caution him that he needs to be more discrete.   He tells me he wants to fuck me and that he has nine inches.  I text back to bring it on!  This goes on for quite a bit.  I’d share it verbatim, but I deleted the whole thing already.

I finish my work and then go to my car to get my prairie pack: it has a little sex kit in it.  I text Mr. Tent asking him how long before he can get here.   He asks me if I can come back when it’s dark.  That, I tell him, I’m not willing to do.  It’s now or never.  I tell him to walk in the side door, lock it, and come find me in the house. 

4:30 pm

After cleaning myself up in the now pristine bathroom, I turn on the air, close all the blinds and set a packing blanket on the living room rug near the big picture window.  The window has a Venetian-style blind on it so I can peek out to see him coming.

4:40 pm

I text him again and ask how long?  He tells me he is on his way and will be there in a few.  Stripping down, I get in place.  I’m wearing my new Pistol Pete jock, hoping to show off my ass to its full potential.  There’s an extra-large condom, lube, and a bottle of poppers at the ready.  As I wait, I keep peeking through the blinds, lubing up my ass, and working out possible scenarios in my head. 

I think he's going to be dominant.  I hope he kisses.  I want him naked  and writhing around on the floor with me.  If he's really nine inches, then I want to straddle him and be on top, so I get used to his dick, which, based on what I kept 'accidentally' grazing the back of my hand against, is pretty thick.  My eyes keep going from my cell phone to the tiny space I am peeking through between the blind's slats. 

5:00 pm    

Where is he?  Maybe he won’t show.  I decide I am okay with that, since this scene is no longer really my thing, at least not the way it was when I first began rehabbing rental houses five years ago.  I contemplate bailing.  Maybe I am over this whole thing.

5:15 pm

I’m rapidly losing hope and getting tired of re-lubing my hole.  I start to worry about not having enough time to really enjoy one another.    What the hell am I doing?

5:30 pm

I’m starting to think about packing it up and texting him ‘another time?’ 

5:32:

He appears on the front sidewalk.  He comes in, leaving the front gate open.  Right there and then I decide I’m not renting to him.  I don’t like careless people.  

Against my better judgment, I get on all fours, take a hit of poppers, and point my ass in his direction, so it’s the first thing he sees as he walks in the room.

Well, surprise, surprise… nothing goes as I had hoped.

He’s nervous and makes me move the blanket away from the picture window to the area by the front door, which makes no sense at all because there are now actually three windows people can peek through if they really wanted to, as opposed to one.  I point out the fact that I was standing in front of the picture window and he didn’t see me when he came in, but he’s not buying it. 

In the hopes of calming his nerves, I do as told. 

He won’t get naked.  He hikes down his shorts and underwear to mid-thigh and hikes up his polo to just above his pecs (which are nice).  His dick isn’t hard, so I have some work to do.  I take it in my mouth and do my best to breathe some life into it.  It’s a nice looking cock. He’s busy working his nips.  My hands move up and take over in an effort to prove to him that I know what I’m doing.  His hands hold my head in place.  He likes the power, but seems distracted.  His dick gets hard within a few minutes and I start showing him what my throat can really do. 

No encouragement.  No feedback.  No praise.  Finally he pulls his dick out of my mouth and says, “Damn, you know how to suck dick.  That fella (he’s referring to the lawn guy – a bi-polar Vietnam vet) told me you suck dick.” 

I don’t know how to process this. 

I tell him I’ve never sucked off that dude.  “Do you mean he told you I was gay?”  I don’t get an answer. 

“Where’s that condom?  I wanna fuck your ass.”  There’s something urgent in his tone and I get a sense he wants to get this over as soon as possible.  He’s been there less than ten minutes, but okay with me.  It’s been awhile since I had some quality dick and Mr. Tent more than meets the requirements, so bring it on.  

Though, I must point out, the dude is not nine inches.  He’s a nicely thick 8.5 at the most.  But who am I to quibble over half an inch?

I turn around to grab the condom.  I can’t find it.  When I moved the blanket, it disappeared.  It’s not back in the old spot, either.  I start flipping the corners of the blanket.  “Don’t you got one?”  I tell him to give me a second.  Finally I locate it.  Somehow it got under the middle of the packing blanket.  Handing it to him, I grab the lube and freshen my hole.  Glancing over, I see he’s ripped open the packet but his dick has gone to a semi, which means he needs to be orally resuscitated before slipping it on.  I move back in and give him my best.  He plumps up quickly, then hands me the condom.  I guess that’s my job, too.   I roll it on, mouth it once or twice and then assume the position, thinking he will want to fuck me doggy-style standing up. 

But, no.

His shorts and underwear fall to his ankles and he tells me to get on all fours.  Fine.  Just fuck me, already.  I assume that position, grab my poppers and take a couple of hits.  Warning him to enter slowly, I am grateful when he does as told.   Soon he’s in like Flynn, with my hole adjusting to his girth; sweet fit, but nothing I can’t handle.  Squeezing my hole, I milk him a little.  No reaction.

 

Soon, he has a medium-tempo rhythm going and it feels fine – nothing earth shaking – but fine.  I start to fuck back on his cock a little and he stops me cold. “Just be still.”  All right, you’re the boss, I think.  And then I start to think that maybe my poppers are the only thing that’s going to make me feel exceptional about this fuck. 

Amazingly – with a condom on – the dude is done in a matter of twenty more thrusts.  He stays in me and I milk it with my clenched hole.  When he pulls out, I whip around, thinking I will get to clean him up.  The condom comes off and I can see huge trails of beautiful white cum still dripping from his dickhead. As I move in to take care of it, he shoos me away.  “Naw, maybe next time.  I gotta go.”

He zips up, puts himself together, and exits, leaving the side door ajar as he goes!  He leaves that door open with me standing there in my Pistol Pete!  Careless.  Moving to the picture window, I peek through the slats of the blinds, and watch as he exits, leaving the gate open, yet again.  Weird. 

I go back to the blanket and try to recapture the feelings of anticipation and the excitement I felt while showing him around the house.  Working up just enough mojo, I manage to get myself off.  Then I clean up.  But before I do that, I check the time.  The whole thing took less than twenty minutes!  And that includes getting myself off.  His part was probably over in less than fifteen!

Immediately, I get a text from him.  When can we play again?  I write back that I am done at the house and won’t be back.  Then he calls me and wants to know what else I am into?  Do I like pot?  I decline, saying “Naw, this it for me.  Thanks,” and hang up.

He keeps calling.  I don’t answer.  He keeps texting.  I hit delete.  This goes on for the next three days.  It’s now Thursday.  Finally, maybe, he’s taken the hint. 

And me?  I’m so mad at myself and glad I used a condom.  I promise myself to not repeat this scene again.  I’m over it.  It’s done, for me.

Later, my business partner, who gave Mr. Tent his card, calls me at work and asks about him.  I tell him I don’t know him; that our lawn guy knows him and that is how he learned about the house.  My business partner tells me he thought the guy was pushy.  Making my position clear, I tell him I don’t want to rent to the guy. 

On Tuesday, Mr. Tent shows up at the property… with his girlfriend!  My business partner just happens to be there, so he gives them the tour.  Yes.  His girlfriend! That explains a lot!   After work, I drive through the neighborhood looking for this dude’s pet grooming shop.  Sure enough, there it is, a few blocks from the rental house. 

The sign above the shop window reads ‘Pamela’s Pet Grooming’.

Hmm… he didn’t strike me as a ‘Pamela’ at all.

Writing this?  My stomach is all butterflies, but not the fun kind.  See, as titillated by the scene as I was? Something in my brain kept telling me that something was really wrong. 

And I know what it is… the dude’s behavior was totally predatory. 

Now, make no mistake - I am a willing victim – in the past I have gotten off on this kind of cockiness.  But in hindsight, for someone to walk into a stranger’s house and behave so sexually aggressive solely based on a comment made by someone in the neighborhood?  That takes balls. 

And it kind of creeps me out. 

See, I could never be so bold, not even in a bathhouse scene.  I don’t think it’s cool to behave that way.  Maybe you disagree?  And that’s okay.  A certain kind of cockiness?  I can see how that may be attractive.  There was a time when even this type of cockiness didn’t bother me.  In this case?  I was too intrigued to listen to my better judgment.   

And this isn’t a case of sour grapes either.  The fuck was fine.  Nothing to it, but he got all the basics right.  No, it’s not that part of our encounter that bothers me.  I am used to fuck-and-go’s.  Sometimes I actual prefer them. 

As for my ‘accidently’ grazing his dick three times?  Well, my behavior isn’t much better than his, now is it?  And that makes me sad.

That predatory part sticks in my craw (so to speak).   I'm no victim, but if he behaved this way with me, then he’s probably behaved this way with others.  And something tells that his brand of attention is not always welcome.   The only reason I did what I did was because of what he did (read that sentence three times fast).  I found the situation titillating. But that’s no excuse.

This is causing me to rethink a lot of my behavior in the past five years.  I don’t believe I’ve ever crossed a line with anyone, but still… what defines predatory behavior?  Is viewing others in terms of their potential as a sexual outlet an unhealthy way of thinking?  Am I crossing a line when I evaluate people in those terms and behave sexually in inappropriate places - places I used to term  as non-traditional places and behavior I have always seen as good, clean, grown-up fun.  But places such as parks, the prairie, or public restrooms – should these be out of bounds?   Yes, I only play with consenting adults, and wait for that consent to be made explicit, but still?  Is such behavior predatory?

I’m mulling it over.  I don’t know how to feel about this.  It’s making me rethink how I conduct my life.

So, I will keep ignoring Mr. Tent’s texts and phone calls, deleting his number each time it appears.  Oh, don’t get me wrong: he’s handsome enough, his dick is big enough, his voice is sexy enough and his body is hot enough.   I would love to do him again, if only to see if I could get him to relax more and stick around a bit longer. 

But that’s not going to happen, because sometimes hindsight is right and you have to go with your gut.

But exactly what is my gut telling me…

… about me?