2. Your Secret

TWO

your secret

Sun-kissed cheeks and a dewy sheen of sweat veiled the normally even tone of my skin, glistening on my forehead as I turned the key to unlock the front door to Enzo’s house, a craftsmen painted a deep, muted shade of blue with light gray trim. I was perched on a small, elevated slab of concrete and red brick that composed the front porch, not much room for anything other than a doormat and a potted plant. Houses in the neighborhood stacked and nestled themselves amongst other residential structures and beneath leafy old-growth tree canopies.

The unforgiving oppression of September days had finally given way to wavering temperatures more suited to October, offering welcome breaks of comfortable, moderate warmth between days-long stretches of unrelenting sultriness, the sunbeams belting down from afternoon skies as a heavy blanket of humidity hung cruelly in the air. But this week had given Atlanta another one of those sultry stretches. The thick, moist air had been hanging around since Tuesday, when the temperature again spiked to nearly ninety degrees, only resigning in the black of night when the neighborhood had grown quiet.

Thank God it was Friday; the sweet end to another grueling week of working outside. And I had no weekend jobs lined up.

The thin gray fabric of my T-shirt clung to my chest, beads of salty perspiration faintly dampening the front of it in an odd sort of Rorschach pattern. I was grateful for the central air that hit me like a brick in Enzo’s entryway, instantly cooling my flesh, providing me with a satisfying respite from the outdoors: the thickness, the heat, the density of the city in which I’d been trapped for hours, for years. I loved the heat but I was ready for a break.

I drew a strange enjoyment from entering Enzo’s space, a muted excitement that bubbled underneath my flesh and tingled my fingers and toes, subtly vibrating in my stomach. And even further down below. It made no sense. It was a nice home but a lot of my clients had nice homes—well-decorated, upscale, expensive homes. Most of them were one- and two-bedroom condos in high-rise towers a couple of blocks away. Those towers furnished the neighborhood with activity, with interest, and decorated the skyline with shiny, glimmering, looming beacons of glass and steel that buzzed with life. But Enzo’s place was older, a small single-family home with cedar-shake accents and a giant evergreen in the front yard. It was nice. It was comfortable.

The setup inside was neat and tidy, everything in its place. The smell was clean but woodsy, like bergamot and cedar and new furniture. A candle on the coffee table looked recently burned. Maybe that was the source of the aromatic ambiance that seemed to float through that entire space. Or maybe it was Enzo’s cologne still lingering in the air. There was something serene about the house. Structured but easy. Modern but cozy. Pristine but lived in.

Enzo’s house aroused me in the dullest of ways, its tediousness intoxicating.

His living room was situated to the right of the entryway—completely open to the kitchen straight ahead—and decorated with contemporary furniture: a sectional sofa, a coffee table, an oversized floor lamp that swooped up and dramatically hung over the space. Wide bamboo planks stretched the entire length of the house. An exposed brick wall housed a large flat-screen TV and a built-in fireplace that wouldn’t be necessary for at least a couple of months. A muted gray tone gave life to the other walls—walls that were sparsely decorated with abstract art that gave nothing away about Enzo’s personal life, about his character. The space was mid-century minimalism at its finest.

An oversized picture window at the front of the house overlooking the quaint postage-stamp front yard provided a nice view of the vivid splashes of greens and browns that painted the world outside: cut blades of grass and leafy plants and overgrown bushes and large old oak trees. The garden district was quieter and more stately than bustling Spruce Street, where the majority of my clients lived towering above this older, more historic slice of the neighborhood.

Unhooking the leash from Rocco’s harness and unclipping the clasp that kept it secured around his chest, I allowed him to step out and prance over to his water bowl in the kitchen. The silky tufts of black and white fur that dangled from his belly bounced back and forth as he strode. He lapped and lapped as though he hadn’t had a drop in days.

Rocco’s an English springer spaniel, almost three years old, and usually my last walk of the day. Enzo, Rocco’s owner, tended to work late hours—later than most of my clients, anyway; eleven to seven rather than nine to five. When he asked me if I could manage a four o’clock time slot, it was music to my ears. Most prospective clients wanted their companions walked between the hours of eleven and two. Even pack walkers could only accomplish so much in such a tight time frame.

I didn’t pack walk. I’d been walking dogs full-time for four years, long enough to know that walking even two dogs that weren’t well trained at the same time could be a struggle, let alone five or six.

My mom had been asking me what my future was going to look like for the last two years, and honestly, I didn’t know. It’s the future , I kept telling her. No one could possibly know what it’s going to look like . I graduated from Georgia State in the spring with a degree in marketing and no fucking clue what to do with it. Even less of a clue about what I wanted to do with it.

Walking dogs suited me just fine. Eight thirty-minute walks a day allowed me to pay the rent on my small studio apartment. It covered the bills. It put food on the table. Anything on top of that—extra walks, overnight stays with pets while their owners traveled, watering plants, house-sitting—was play money, travel funds, a deposit into a savings account.

Enzo’s house was nice. It was the kind of place owned by someone who knew what they wanted to do with their degree before they graduated. Someone who got offer letters from Fortune 500 companies before tossing their cap. Someone with an understated sense of style and a bank account with no history of overdraft fees. It was the kind of place one could host parties and backyard barbecues and raise a family.

Only, Enzo was single, as far as I could tell. There were three bedrooms, two of which looked like they’d never been used. Only one toothbrush stood in the toothbrush holder in his bathroom. There were no photos featuring significant others hanging on the walls or occupying frames on end tables or dotting the mantel over the fireplace. There was usually only one soiled bowl and one ringed coffee cup sitting in the sink from breakfast waiting to be washed after a long day of work.

I’d only met him once—a year ago when I had my initial meet-and-greet with Rocco. I assumed he had just moved into the neighborhood or his previous walker had gotten a full-time job or moved away. The meeting lasted all of ten minutes. Enough time for me to get a feel for Rocco’s temperament. Enough time for Enzo to show me where Rocco’s leash was kept, where his toys were stored, and where his food was tucked away in the pantry. Enough time for him to gauge my experience and judge my character. To establish the most basic of rapports in a professional relationship.

Enzo didn’t reveal too much about himself in those ten minutes. He was a man of few words—quiet, serious, maybe even shy—asking only necessary questions and giving me only the information I needed to navigate his home and walk his dog. I couldn’t tell if he was straight or gay or undecided, and he offered me nothing to make my assumption any easier. I got the feeling that small talk wasn’t his thing. I was fine with that. He was a client to me and nothing more.

He must have just gotten home from work when I’d met him that evening a year ago. He wore black slacks that hugged his firm ass snugly and a gray-and-white checked button-up that fit him well. It led me to believe he kept himself in shape. He was attractive—maybe even hot—but nothing in particular drew me to him at that moment. The meeting was strictly business.

Rocco continued drinking until his bowl ran almost dry, sloppy strings of drool swirling in the otherwise clear water. He then traipsed down the hallway toward the primary bedroom at the back of the house—Enzo’s room—where he usually hung out when Enzo wasn’t home, lounging on a large plush dog bed in the corner. I cleaned his bowl and refilled it with filtered water, then followed him to Enzo’s room so I could close him in before heading home for the evening. I needed to clean up so I could meet some friends for dinner and drinks later.

When I entered the room, the door to Enzo’s bathroom was wide open and the light was switched on. The sight wasn’t that strange. It was just that Enzo rarely left any lights on in the house when he departed for work. Something tugged at me. A feeling inside that told me I should check to make sure everything was alright. I don’t know why. It was simply a light left on in a bathroom. But at that moment, I felt I should investigate, or at the very least, turn the light off.

Something caught my attention as I rounded his bed and approached the bathroom, though; something that should have been inconspicuous. Something I should have breezed past and forgotten about moments later, but for some reason, caught my eye. Just next to the bathroom was a walk-in closet. And just next to the walk-in closet was a wicker laundry hamper, lid closed over the cream-colored cloth bag that lined it. And wedged between the basket and the lid was an elastic strap, white and interesting and full of intrigue in its meaninglessness.

I don’t know what snapped in my brain at that moment, but I froze. I forgot about the stupid light in the bathroom. Rocco absent-mindedly licked at his paw, focused completely on the task at hand, oblivious to my presence. Everything else in the room just disappeared: the bed, the art on the walls, even Rocco. The only thing that existed was that hamper. And the elastic strap hypnotized me, drew me into some sort of cultish trance. Colors and shapes melded around me, eventually forming a tunnel that led directly to the hamper. Like a tractor beam. Like I was on some sort of eroticized acid trip.

It was as though X had marked the spot and my insatiable greed had gotten the best of me. Danger could be lurking around the corner. I might stumble upon some sort of counter-offensive, enemy forces leading me to an ambush. It could be booby-trapped, the treasure chest I’d just discovered. But I also didn’t care. Some sort of daze had settled in around me, my expression vacant, my eyes glazed over.

I shook myself out of it, literally shaking my head from side to side to break free from whatever pull that strap had on me. A digital clock on the bedside table read 4:41. It was the middle of the workday for Enzo. He wouldn’t be home for hours. Surely, Rocco wouldn’t mind me hanging around for a few minutes. Enzo would be none-the-wiser if I just had a peek.

What am I doing? A peek at what? Enzo’s laundry? What the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get the fuck out of here.

My brief attempt to reason with myself was of no use. Time seemed to lapse, and before I knew it, I found myself lifting the lid of the hamper to discover the rest of the jock that belonged to that elastic strap. That erotic-looking undergarment rested on a pile of Enzo’s dirty laundry: towels, socks, underwear, T-shirts, jeans, dress clothes, gym shorts. Most of those items meant nothing to me. That jockstrap, however, was the focus of my attention. The only thing that kept me from moving, from bolting out of that house, from cursing myself, from pushing that weird desire into some dark closet in my brain and padlocking the door. A door that would inevitably be kicked at from the other side, forcing my undivided attention as that innocuous piece of apparel begged for escape.

The white elastic straps, the gray pouch, that thick black line racing its way around the waistband, two thin red lines sandwiching it in. Even the size of the thing excited me: medium. Had anyone ever encountered such a wondrous size?

The jockstrap had been thrown into the hamper haphazardly, wadded up, the straps twisted and tired, lazing atop a pile of unwashed clothes, relegated to a mundane weekend chore. But I was an explorer and I had discovered the most beautiful fucking place ever discovered.

A genuine curiosity pecked at my brain—had he worn it recently? He must have since it was on top of the pile. Maybe this morning? During a workout? A jog around the park?

A tingle shot like an arrow from my brain to my cock, causing it to jump and swell in my underwear. I felt it thicken and press against my cutoff khaki shorts, a visible bulge surely forming as my slumbering member awoke, stretching and yawning, preparing to embark on another sexual journey.

Why was I so enthralled? Enzo was good-looking when I’d met him a year ago but I hadn’t seen him since. I liked walking his dog. I liked being in his house. It made me feel… something. Pinpointing exactly what being in that space made me feel was difficult, though, and I tried not to give it much thought. But I liked the feeling it gave me.

And Enzo? He was simply an attractive client. He wasn’t my first and likely wouldn’t be my last. But he was nothing more.

But suddenly, Enzo was all I could think about. My brain sent pulses of electricity through my body as I stared at that jockstrap. I imagined Enzo jogging through the neighborhood, lifting weights at the gym, doing push-ups or sit-ups or jumping rope in his backyard, all while wearing that jockstrap underneath a pair of slick gym shorts that hugged his frame and rode up and down his thighs with each movement.

His muscles flexing.

His meaty pecs bouncing.

Beads of sweat leaving salty trails of desire behind them as they coursed down his temples, his back, his tight abdomen.

Fuck. I had grown completely hard during my fantasy; a level of firmness that would require assistance to dissipate. That would necessitate a release to retract.

I wondered if I should touch it, that jockstrap. I knew I shouldn’t. It was an impulse. And the question wasn’t whether I should or not, it was simply a matter of whether I could get away with it without Enzo finding out. Without feeling the guilt that would surely meet me later, the guilt that would come from lusting over—from handling—another guy’s worn jockstrap. A steady client of mine, no less.

I looked back to the clock on this bedside table. 4:43. I’d been staring at the thing for two minutes, frozen in some kind of sexual trance. I felt like a kid in a candy store. A kid who was trying to get away with swiping a handful of something sweet while the shopkeeper was busy with another customer.

This is stupid , I thought. I know I’m going to touch it. Just fucking do it already .

My mind had been made up. I had only been hesitating in hopes that I would come to my senses, replace the lid, and walk away. But two minutes had passed—shit, three now—and I hadn’t budged. I leaned the lid against the wall to prop it up. The position would make it easy to grab it and throw it back on top of the hamper if I actually stopped to think about what I was doing. My hand reached out and grabbed the jockstrap quickly, as though I was hoping no one saw. I don’t know why. Not a soul was around.

The pouch felt cool in my hand as I gently rubbed the fabric between my thumb and forefinger. It was made of a soft cotton-spandex blend that gave it the ability to stretch, to shift with the movement of a body. Enzo’s body. Slightly damp at the edges, I panicked at the thought that it should probably be dry given how many hours Enzo should have been at work. Perhaps the lid of the hamper didn’t allow for much airflow. Perhaps Enzo had gone in to work late.

My dick stretched and punched at the fly of my shorts, looking for a way out, hoping to find comfort in freedom. It pulsed with excitement at the thought of Enzo’s cock being trapped inside the same jockstrap I was currently fondling just hours earlier, his balls tight against the fabric of the pouch.

Reason flew the coop and my sick curiosity got the best of me once again. I brought the pouch to my face and inhaled, softly at first, quickly. I wasn’t sure what I would encounter and I wasn’t sure if I would like it. The scent was light, an almost hollow musk dancing on the fabric. So, I went in again, inhaling more deeply as I brought the pouch closer to my face, touching it to my nose.

There it is , I thought. There’s the thick, heady scent of a man between his legs .

It was a scent I wasn’t sure I’d find at first, a scent I wasn’t sure I wanted to find: sweat and masculinity and sex. I swear I could smell sex clinging to the fabric. My rigid hard cock relayed to my brain that I could, anyway.

Fuck, I was horny. And I was sniffing the dirty laundry of a client. A client to whom I’d never given much thought. Not until just that moment, when that client became the only thought I had in my mind. Those distant memories of his kind, angular face: the laugh lines, the full head of hair newly graying at the temples, the sexy five o’clock shadow dotted with flecks of salt and pepper, clouded my head like a sandstorm. Memories a year old and probably outdated.

The rounded shape of his ass in those black slacks. Fuck.

And now, the way he smelled. That would be a new memory I’d carry with me. It would be the one that would put me over the edge the next time a heady release anxiously bounded across the horizon.

I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. I wanted him all over me. I wanted to be able to smell him on my face later that night when I was out with my friends, a naughty little secret keeping my dick hard and my mind racing with filthy thoughts during dinner. I wanted to lick my lips after taking a sip of my beer and taste him on me. I wanted to be able to sense him on me while I jerked off in my bed before falling asleep. I wanted to be able to picture him clearly; pushing his cock between my wet lips, provoking me, urging me to lick him, to taste him, to suck him. To swallow him.

I inhaled deeper, pressing his jockstrap to my face, imagining how it would feel to be fucked by him, for him to shove his cock into my…

“Stevie?” The voice that appeared from behind me was rugged but even, almost accusatory. It scared the shit out of me, shocked me into believing I’d imagined it. I hoped I had. Please, please let it have been my imagination. “What are you doing?”

Fuck.

Shit.

Holy motherfucking shit fuck.

My entire face turned red; cheeks set ablaze with rosy embers. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. The room began to spin… quickly. I thought I might pass out. Then it slowed. I froze up, and sweat began to bead on my forehead and under my arms… again. Nervous energy coursed through my veins, doing anything it could to push itself from my body, from the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet.

I dropped the jockstrap back into the hamper, doing my best to restrain my movements and conceal my guilt, and stood completely still. My back was to the door. Maybe he hadn’t seen what I was doing. His voice had appeared from nowhere, after all. It had taken me a few seconds to even realize there was someone in the room with me. Well, in the doorway, watching me in his room, sniffing his jockstrap. But maybe he hadn’t seen. What the hell was he doing home from work so early, anyway?

I wanted to fade away, to spontaneously combust, to find an open window and hastily fling myself from the safety of his house. It was no longer a safe space for me. It had become a hostile battleground, a stately courtroom in which I sat exposed on the stand being interrogated with a string of litigious questioning, forced to incriminate myself.

Wait. The bathroom light. That’s why I’d originally entered his bedroom in the first place. I’d pretend like I’d been turning the bathroom light off before unceremoniously tripping over the hamper on my way out, causing the lid and some of the contents to tumble to the floor below. That’d be plausible, right? Except the bathroom light was still on and I was standing over the open hamper like a jerk, like a stunned idiot, like a deer in fucking headlights.

I couldn’t speak.

“Stevie,” the voice addressed me again, this time demanding, searching for a clue as to what I might be doing in his bedroom, trying to work out some scenario for why I might be standing over his open laundry hamper. He was attempting to shake me from my stupor. There was a depth to his tone. His voice was deeper than I remembered it being three seconds ago, and certainly deeper than I remembered it being during our initial meeting. His tone carried what few words had been spoken with some combination of confusion and unease, maybe even a twinge of anger.

That’s it , I thought. I’m going to be fired. And as soon as word got out around the neighborhood about what I’d been up to, no one else would even think of hiring me . I’d have to move, change my appearance, maybe even my identity.

My mom would be thrilled to find out that I’d have to start searching for work in some other field—thrilled that I’d started taking my future seriously.

Ugh.

I couldn’t turn around. I couldn’t face him. The situation was too humiliating.

Rocco continued licking himself, unaffected, blithely unaware of Enzo’s presence. Lucky bastard.

“Stevie,” Enzo started, then paused, then started again, his tone easing slightly. “Is everything alright?”

He must have noticed my unease, my inability to move, to speak. I had to respond or he’d think I was having a stroke. I had to say something or do something or slam my eyes shut and just hope to the gods above that I would disintegrate into thin air, a smoky mélange of captive blackbirds taking my place, finding their freedom as they desperately flapped away in a cloud of dust.

At some point, I realized I had no way out. I was going to have to fess up to what I had done, say goodbye to Rocco, hand Enzo the key to his house, and be on my pitiful way, feeling humiliated and inferior. With any luck, I’d never bump into him in the neighborhood.

“Uh…” I stammered. “Yeah. Sorry, I was just… uh…”

“Stevie,” he interrupted, repeating my name for what felt like the tenth time.

“Yeah?” I finally turned, ashamedly glancing up to meet his eye, feeling the need to answer his every question, to obey him.

Fuck, he had only gotten hotter since I first met him. He’d hardly changed from what I remembered, but he suddenly had an authoritative quality about him. This time the slacks he wore were charcoal gray and his button-up lavender. His frame filled everything out nicely. His hair was cut short and purposefully mussed, the thick strands in front almost forming a widow’s peak on his tanned forehead. He still had the five o’clock shadow and pulled it off well, giving him the effortless look of a sexy daddy, salt and pepper still decorating his face.

He couldn’t have been any older than fifty, no younger than forty. Slight creases pulled at the corners of his eyes. It was the first time I’d really looked at him, seeing him as a man instead of just a client.

He stood still in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, his head cocked to the side, a modest smile pulling at his lips. A slight bulge tented the front of his slacks. Was he hard or were his pants just too tight? Both things were reasonably possible. A twinge of intrigue appeared on that modest smile. “You probably shouldn’t be going through people’s dirty laundry.”

Did he mean that figuratively or literally? In that situation, either definition could have applied. He spoke to me like a child. I guess I deserved it.

“I swear… it’s the first time. I’ve never…”

He chuckled. A shy grin finally rested atop his rugged jawline as I choked on my words, struggling to explain what I had been doing and why.

“Look,” Enzo interrupted. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not gonna fire me?”

“No!” He said it emphatically, as if I were crazy for even asking.

A sigh of relief escaped me and I felt my shoulders finally relax. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll just get out of here and let you enjoy your weekend.”

I scurried around the bed and tried to squeeze past him in the doorway. He didn’t budge, forcing me to turn myself toward him to slide by sideways. He had five inches, forty pounds, and probably twenty years on me, and I suddenly felt like a child even without him speaking to me like one. As I passed by him, my crotch grazed his thigh. There was no way he didn’t feel my erection trapped in my shorts.

He suddenly turned to face me in the doorway. The expression on his face was hard to read as I glanced up into his eyes. It didn’t appear that he was angry, but more like some deviant streak had suddenly overtaken him, as though he’d been struck by lightning and the shock had unlocked a hidden desire in him, one that was driven by sexual hunger. Only, it was tempered by uncertainty, like it was the first time he’d been in this situation and he wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed.

“Or…” Enzo reached out and apprehensively grabbed my cock through my shorts, as if he were trying to confirm I was actually aroused. “ You could help me enjoy my weekend.”

Holy shit. Was this actually happening? I’d hooked up with plenty of guys in the past, but typically, I met them at bars while we were both on the prowl. It had never happened like this before. Never with a client. And the sex was usually pretty vanilla. Never had a guy caught me going through his laundry, sniffing his jockstrap, and then invited me to help him get off.

My voice cracked as I spoke. “That’s what you want?”

“Yeah,” he admitted through a cute, crooked grin. His hand was still on my cock and he gave it a quick squeeze, causing me to flex and expand in his grip. “Is it what you want?”

I quickly nodded my head. My mouth had gone dry. My throat had constricted. But I was finally able to speak with a feigned sense of confidence. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Enzo started, giving my cock another squeeze. “Then don’t go.”

My dick throbbed in his grasp and my mouth finally started to water. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do or how to proceed.

“Rocco,” he called, his eyes never leaving mine, his hand never leaving my crotch. “Living room.”

Rocco, acknowledging Enzo for the first time since he’d arrived home, jumped from his bed and squeezed between our legs before traipsing down the hallway and into the living room, probably to find a comfortable spot to sleep on the couch.

Enzo guided us into his bedroom, shutting the door behind us and stopping just short of the side of his bed. The room was quiet, and the French doors leading out to the back deck situated steps from the foot of the bed flooded the room with light. The backyard was fenced in for privacy. Leafy shrubs, tropical plants, and whimsical, towering rods of bamboo grew wild, not allowing for views from the neighbors if they’d tried. We were alone in his house. In his room. But I didn’t feel trapped. I was nervous but not scared. Enzo was in control but he wasn’t aggressive. At least, not in a way I didn’t want him to be.

The smirk I glimpsed hidden beneath the surface on his otherwise stormy face gave me comfort. He was just as nervous about this as I was, but someone had to take control or we would have simply stared at each other until we died, our erections straining against our clothes, annoyed by our inability to act on our desires.

Maybe he’d wanted a piece of me since the day he hired me but didn’t want to scare me off, didn’t want to risk losing a good dog walker for Rocco. Maybe he was just horny. I no longer cared. He wanted me and I most certainly wanted him. The opportunity had presented itself. What the fuck were we waiting for?

We stood facing each other. Enzo placed his strong hands on my shoulders and applied some pressure, guiding me to my knees in front of him. It didn’t take much convincing. His fingers were long and weighty, the tops of his hands lightly dusted with dark, wispy hairs. Deep veins protruded and cut paths along his flesh. His knuckles bulged with strength. I wasn’t sure exactly what he did for a living now—only that he spent his days in an office—but he’d certainly worked with his hands at some point.

On my knees, I stared at the outline of his cock pressing into his slacks, desperately trying to escape, snaking around whatever it was confined in underneath. I looked up into Enzo’s eyes and licked my lips. I couldn’t help it. I’d lost any control I may have once had over my actions.

He palmed the back of my head—my sandy-brown hair cut short and sort of parted to one side, not styled but naturally tousled—and pulled me into his crotch, holding me against him. His length jumped at my presence, twitching and flexing against my flushed cheek. I inhaled, hoping to get another whiff of his innate maleness, another hit off his jockstrap. But the fabric of his dress pants smelled laundry-fresh. I certainly didn’t mind the scent of spring rain or fresh linen, but my mind was spinning, wondering what treasures lay underneath. A quick moan fell from between his lips at my touch.

His package felt hefty, tightly confined in layers of fabric that weren’t doing either of us any favors, acting as needless barriers to a sexual playground I’d rather explore in all its glory, free of costume and pageantry.

Enzo apparently had the same idea. “Take off your shirt,” he huffed, one hand rubbing at the thickness of this thigh and the other grasping one of his pecs firmly. He seemed almost embarrassed telling me what to do, as though he might say the wrong thing. As if such an off-putting phrase existed at that moment.

I did as I was told, swiftly raising my arms and grasping at the back of my shirt collar, pulling at the fabric and yanking it over my head with one forceful tug before wadding it in my fist and tossing it to the floor. The cool air in the room whipped at my exposed flesh—taut on my slight frame and clammy from a day of walking dogs in the unforgiving sun—hardening the brown of my petite nipples. The afternoon rays poured into the room from the west, shadowing the slight definition around my pecs, my abs, the V-lines of my obliques.

Enzo licked his lips as I looked up into his eyes, eager for his direction and awaiting his next command, curious about what I’d be doing next. “And your shorts.”

Done. I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts, and stood long enough to push them down my thighs and kick them off along with my socks and sneakers. Two wet spots dotted the heather-gray fabric just under the band of my briefs, making small Vs on either side of the base of my cock that tented the front of them. It had been a hot fucking day spent running around the neighborhood walking dog after dog, and I had broken a sweat.

For a moment, I almost cared about not being at my freshest. But then again, I’d just had my nose buried in the pouch of Enzo’s sweaty jockstrap when he’d been turned on enough to proposition me, so I guess I didn’t have too much to worry about in the way of his judgment.

“Those too,” he continued, motioning to the only article of clothing still covering my body with a nod of his head.

I peeled out of my briefs, kicking them over to the pile of clothing I’d already discarded, revealing myself to him, the sheen of sweat covering my frame still cooling, basking in the goodness of the air-conditioning. The head of my hard cock bounced up against my stomach, standing at full attention, and my balls hung loose between my thighs as I fell back to my knees and buried my face in his crotch.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he said, leaning his head back to enjoy the feeling of my face against his trapped cock. As much as I appreciated it, I didn’t need the encouragement or the validation. All I really needed was his dick in my mouth or buried in my hungry hole. This man had made me needy, even desperate, for him. Never had I been so overtaken by my desire.

Sex had always been fine. It was good with some guys. With others, it was just alright. But it had always just been sex. Nothing more. But with Enzo? I was suddenly experiencing need. I had a need to please the man in front of me and there was an underlying urgency behind every action taken, behind every word spoken.

Enzo unfastened his belt and unhooked the button of his slacks, unzipping them slowly before pushing his wrinkled shirt tails out of the way and revealing the white cotton pouch of a jockstrap with matching white straps and waistband, a thin purple stripe cutting through the center of it. Thick dark hair curled out from underneath, blanketing his upper thighs. A less dense patch of hair curled upward over the waistband, as though he regularly trimmed his pubes but it had been a while since his last manscaping session.

His body looked so different than mine. A small patch of pubic hair grew above my cock and around my balls that I normally kept trimmed. Below that, a few hairs feathered out between my legs and up the crack of my ass. I kept all of that trimmed down as well. A meager treasure trail worked its way up my lower abdomen to my navel where it then faded into smooth skin the rest of the way up. Enzo was clearly hairy, and his body turned me on even more because of it.

He grabbed the back of my head with care and pressed my face into his crotch again, my nose working itself into the crease where the pouch met his thigh. Even after what I assumed was a morning shower post-workout, the day had found him. Whether he sat at a desk, paced a boardroom, or fidgeted in a hot car all day, whether he braved the dense heat while walking to the train station or plowed through a thick cloud of humidity while trekking home from his office, the sweet remnants of the day—of a light musk percolating between his legs—filled my nostrils. I inhaled him intently and he pulled me deeper into him, offering me more of his subtle deliciousness.

“So, this is what you like, Stevie?” It wasn’t really a question. “You like the smell of a man between his legs?”

I looked up at him from my kneeling position, almost drooling, meeting his blue-green irises and speaking honestly. “Not until today. Not until you.”

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” he admitted, chuckling, the wheels of discovery turning in his head. The fact that he could have that effect on me turned him on.

I pushed my face back into him, inhaling as though I were huffing paint. The pouch was so tight on him, filled to the brim with an abundance of his manhood, and I wondered why he decided to wear a jockstrap to work that day. Did he do that every day? For practical reasons? To decrease the chance of visible lines under his slacks, lines that might be drawn by a pair of briefs? Did he like the way a jockstrap felt? Did it make him feel exposed? Sexy? Erotically… mischievous?

I couldn’t get enough of my deviant thoughts, but Enzo was clearly eager for more. He let go of my head and yanked the waistband of his jockstrap down over himself, revealing a semi-hard, thick, uncut cock that bounced up and slapped against the bottom of my chin, the foreskin completely covering the rounded head. It looked heavy and full. And so did his furry sack. The underside of his hefty cock peeled itself away from his balls as it grew firmer.

I wanted him in my mouth, but he needed to get out of those tight pants so he could get himself into a more comfortable position. Once he’d discarded them, once he’d haphazardly kicked them off along with his jockstrap, leaving them to wrinkle on top of the pile of clothes I’d already shed, he sat down on the bed and beckoned me between his legs. His cock was growing hard, but it was so heavy that it just sort of bounced and rested on his balls.

My own cock, which had always seemed pretty average before, looked like a child’s next to his, but I didn’t fucking care. He didn’t fucking care. He thought I was beautiful. Besides, this wasn’t about me. Enzo needed to be pleasured.

Approaching him, I allowed my tongue to gently touch the tip, licking at his retracting foreskin as his dick grew firmer and firmer. A moan slipped through Enzo’s lips as he relaxed onto his bed, his forearms propping him up as the balls of his large feet barely touched the floor. I could tell he wanted to look at me, to watch me as I sucked the head of his cock between my hungry lips, but his head fell back on his neck with the potent sensation of pleasure, his lips parted, his breathing heavy with anticipation.

Maybe it had been a while since he’d last gotten off. He seemed like the type of guy who could get whatever he wanted from whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. But maybe he’d been there and done that. Perhaps he’d started looking for something more but happened to stumble upon an opportunity he simply couldn’t resist when he spied his dog walker desperately sniffing his dirty jockstrap. Maybe he was just horny. So was I. I mean, I wasn’t. But as soon as I inhaled his glorious scent—sweat and sex and maleness—there was no turning back. Perhaps we’d both stumbled into something that simply couldn’t have been avoided.

The feeling of his flesh on my tongue was intense, the taste pleasant and erotic, the smell of his pubic hair clean but full—warm. The remnants of the day lingered on him, the musk of his sweat strong but sweet. Enzo smelled of a man, every bit of him virile and masculine and earthy and perfect.

I worked my way down his length, tasting every inch of him as I attempted to swallow him whole and take him into my throat. At first, I gagged and had to pull off for a moment.

“Easy,” he offered, seeming concerned about my well-being, reaching for the back of my head with his hand but never quite making contact. “Take your time.”

But I was determined. He had finally grown as firm as he would grow, as hard as a man his size could become. So, I got on my knees and went back down on him, swallowing hard and breathing through my nose as I took him into me.

“That’s it,” he moaned. “Swallow that cock. Good boy.”

Fuck. My dick twitched as soon as the words emerged from his mouth and hovered in the air above us. I was nervous that I would come too quickly, that the moment would be over too soon, so I grabbed the base of my cock and squeezed, determined to get him off before I came.

“Keep going, Stevie. That feels so good.”

Shit. Every word he said rippled through me like a sweet shock wave and made me feel like I would lose my load. What was it about his voice saying dirty things to me that I couldn’t handle?

I started sucking his cock more aggressively, using my free hand for assistance in stimulating him, deep-throating with each forward motion, massaging his balls with my hand and the tip of his cock with my tongue. I wanted to get him off. I wanted to taste him. To feel him explode in my mouth.

Enzo had other ideas, though. “Wait. Lower.” He pulled at the base of his cock like it was a fishing line he was trying to reel in.

“Oh, fuck,” I mumbled as I spat him out and buried my face between his legs, pulling his heavy sack into my watering mouth with my tongue, my hands resting on his muscled thighs as he slowly jerked his dick in front of my face. The sensations running through my body were so intense. I couldn’t afford to touch my own cock any longer. I was afraid I would explode.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Bury your head between my legs. Lick my fucking balls. You fucking love the taste of my sweaty sack, don’t you?”

The words sounded almost silly coming from him. It was as though he’d never talked dirty during sex before and wasn’t sure if what he was saying was right or not. But damn it if he didn’t make the words work. And he wasn’t really asking. But I did—I fucking loved it.

Enzo’s head rolled back and forth on his neck as he moaned and pumped his cock with his fist, stealing glances at my face buried between his legs. “Get up here,” he commanded out of nowhere as he unbuttoned his shirt and tore it off, exposing his hairy chest, his fur-covered abdomen, those biceps and forearms that he’d clearly worked hard on.

I stood… at attention. Every part of me. Especially my cock, which was leaking with excitement. Enzo lifted his left arm and grabbed me, pulling me in face-first to his armpit. He rubbed my face all over his exposed pit, forcing me to inhale the scent of the day on him. Fuck, it was hot. I inhaled deeply, huffing his scent, using my tongue to pull his manly essence into me. Had he not worn deodorant to work? Had he been so bold? And why?

I didn’t fucking care.

Once he was satisfied with the job I’d done, the cleaning I’d given him, he lifted his other arm and shoved me over, forcefully pushing me into him once again. I tried grabbing my cock out of habit but he playfully smacked my arm away, showing me who was in charge, making it clear that it was up to him when I would be allowed to come.

For someone who’d acted like such a novice at first, Enzo sure seemed to be picking up the role of the dominant daddy pretty quickly.

“Stand up,” he demanded. “Bend over.”

Again, I did what I was told, leaning my forearms into the bed and spreading my legs as Enzo stood and positioned himself behind me. I knew exactly what was coming and I had no intention of refusing it.

“You want this dick?” I looked back and saw him holding his firm cock, waving it, almost presenting it to me.

“Yes,” I moaned, my hole practically begging to be filled, almost winking at him.

“Where do you want it?”

Fuck. I wanted to tell him that he could put it anywhere he wanted to, but I knew the answer he was looking for. “Put it in my ass. Fill my hole. Fuck me, Enzo.”

“That’s right,” he cooed, gently running his palm down my side, from my chest to my thigh, before cupping one of my cheeks in his hand. I could hear the deviance in his voice, in his tone. It dripped from his tongue like sweet venom. “I know that’s where you want it. But I need you to understand something.”

“What?” I begged.

“I’ll put it wherever I want. Because I know your little secret.”

Oh, fuck. A bead of precome squeezed its way from my slit as my dick twitched again. Enzo was blackmailing me as some sort of role-playing schtick and I was fucking getting off on it. I didn’t remember ever having been this hard. My dick was so rigid—the flesh pulled so tight—that its length pressed against my stomach as it pointed straight up.

He bent down behind me and shoved his face into my crevice, licking, huffing, lubing me up with his saliva. His tongue slid roughshod over every nook and cranny, every little muscled ridge taken care of, sending shock waves through my body.

“Oh, fuck. Eat my hole, Enzo. It’s so hungry for your cock. I need you inside me.”

I had never been vocal in bed, but Enzo had awakened something in me. He’d unleashed a filthy, dirty side of me that had to have been buried somewhere beneath the surface. Over the span of thirty significant minutes, I had gone from a fairly vanilla guy to some naughty little slut, all from the sight of my client’s jockstrap. What the hell was happening to me?

Enzo licked and sucked and penetrated me, reaching depths I didn’t think possible with a tongue. He spit and then massaged the natural lube into my hole with a finger, then two. It hurt, but I was so hungry. I’d get past the fucking pain.

“Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll get my cock.” Fuck, he was giving me a pep talk. He fucking knew how greedy I’d grown. How greedy my hole had become. “But first, get over here and taste yourself on me.”

Anything. Absolutely anything for this guy.

I turned my head over my shoulder and Enzo covered my frame with his weight, holding himself up over me with his strong arms. His mouth met mine, licking my lips, me licking his, our tongues intertwining as we shared a sexy, erotic kiss.

Once Enzo was satisfied that I had gotten my fill, he bent down behind me and spat on my hole, then stood up and spat on his cock, rubbing it in with the palm of his hand. He positioned the tip of his thick cock at my opening, holding himself steady with one hand, holding me in place with the other, and applied pressure, more and more pressure each time I pushed out to try to accommodate him.

My body felt hot. The cool air had been sucked out of the room, replaced by the warm, stagnant air from outside. Did the air conditioner break? Had the power gone out? It couldn’t have. That fucking bathroom light was still on. Jesus, the room felt so hot.

No, it was just me. My God, he was big. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and trickled down my cheeks as I tried to focus.

No, focusing wasn’t working. I needed to transport myself somewhere else until I got used to his size.

Either way, I was determined to take him.

I shut everything off: my mind, my nerves, the beating of my heart. Nothing moved until Enzo had pushed his way inside of me. Until I had accepted him completely. For a moment, the world went black and I was transported back to some ice age in which everything was still and silent. Only, it felt like the depths of hell, flames burning bright and hot inside of me. But I forced myself back into the moment, suppressing the pain. I had to.

He stayed still for a moment, allowing me time to adjust, allowing my body time to start working again. Allowing me to feel his pubes brushing against my ass. I almost didn’t hear him ask if I was alright. Not until I felt his hand gently grip my shoulder.

“I’m okay. Just give me a minute.”

Had it been that long since I’d bottomed? It sure felt like it had but I couldn’t process time in my current state.

Eventually, I took in a breath of air and my heart began beating. My mind focused on how completely Enzo was stretching my hole. The fullness of him inside of me. The goodness of the moment. I was sweating, almost profusely, but breath flowed through me like a river cutting its way through a deep ravine.

Enzo started to move. And he grabbed my waist with a tight grip. And he moaned as he fucked himself into me. He moaned with each thrust. The thrusts were easy at first, slow and sensitive. But I needed more. I grabbed the back of his thigh and pulled him into me, letting him know he could get to work. He read my signal like the pages of a book.

And he fucked me. From behind. He fucked me while I leaned over his bed, breathing in the fresh scent of his linens, sensing the inherent masculinity of Enzo’s body pushing into me from behind.

The way he slid himself into me while blanketing me with his weight was intoxicating. Enzo’s strokes were smooth and intentional, and his arms wrapped around my frame as he fucked himself into me. The coarse hair on his chest tickled my back at first, but eventually, I was consumed by him, overtaken by the strength of his body. His lips met the space between my shoulder blades repeatedly as he fucked me.

This dominant-daddy thing came and went with him. The roles were obviously new to both of us. I was happy in my current submission but I could have turned it off had he wanted me to. It was him that I wanted. Not a character.

The room finally started to feel like it had reached a reasonable temperature again, the depths of that hedonistic hell banished back to the center of the earth, yet we both continued sweating as he pushed me onto the bed with his body, with his length still buried inside me. His thighs spread wide, and he wrapped me up in him as we fucked.

A dick in my ass had never felt so good. Usually, there was some pain, some discomfort, a semblance of gratification, of contentment. But with Enzo, the way he held me, the way he was protecting me as he dominated me, the way he gave himself to me, there was an ecstasy that built inside of me. I felt stretched but comforted, used but fulfilled. Whole and complete and wanted and accomplished and deviant and content. I felt fucking perfect with him inside of me, with his body holding mine.

Enzo pressed me down further onto the bed. He spread my body out underneath him and laid himself on top of me as he rocked himself in and out, over and over. He pinned my legs to the bed, holding my arms down and threading his fingers between mine, planting kisses on the back of my neck, tonguing the beads of sweat that formed on my back, taking me into him as much as I’d taken him into me.

It wasn’t long after he’d gotten me into that position that I could feel Enzo’s orgasm rising, his breaths becoming shallower, his words more stunted and urgent, his body tensing around me. As much as I wanted this to go on for longer, I wasn’t going to be able to hold back my release. I had been close to coming before he ever entered me. The only thing that had stopped me was Enzo taking control of my hands. But even that wasn’t proving useful now.

His cock driving into me deeper and deeper with each thrust was making it hard to control myself even without the use of my hands. Fuck, he felt good inside me.

“I’m… getting… close,” he managed between breaths.

“I know,” I said, clenching myself around him. “Me too.”

One, two, three more thrusts of his cock into me was all it took before he let me go and pulled out. I didn’t want him to. I would have taken him. But I wasn’t going to argue. Not then. I simply needed him to do what came naturally to him. Whatever that was.

I eased up onto my knees and turned to look over my shoulder again, winking my hole at him once more as he gripped his cock and aimed it at my opening.

“Fuck!” he shouted as he let go. I felt his load spill out over me, onto me, into me, dripping down my legs before something came over him and he shoved himself back inside of me.

I gasped as I gripped my cock and felt my load spill out onto his comforter, hedonistic moans falling from my lips. I hoped he wouldn’t be upset. There was such a force behind the release I could almost hear the first shot hit the bed, followed by two more strong volleys, then dribble after dribble as I squeezed and shook my insistently hard cock, tensing and releasing from the shock.

Eventually, I fell to the bed and turned onto my back, releasing Enzo’s cock from the clutch of my hole. Enzo turned and fell onto the bed beside me. I looked over at him and started to laugh. Then, he started to laugh, probably from a combination of gratified pleasure and the sheer awkwardness of our situation.

Trails of perspiration poured down his chest and matted the fur that covered him. Even the hair in his pits was slick with sweat. He’d worked hard for his reward, and there was something so inherently manly about him. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths before he composed himself and turned to look at me, his expression changing to one of concern.

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t take advantage of you.”

“No,” I blurted out as I pushed myself onto my elbows. “No. I mean, I was the one you caught… uh… yeah.”

Suddenly, I was embarrassed again. Enzo chuckled.

“It’s really alright. I have to admit… I found it kind of hot.”

An unrestrained chuckle escaped me, then it turned into a shy smile. “Still, I was way out of line. And I promise I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m really sorry.”

Enzo reached over and grabbed my arm, sort of caressing it. “I believe you, Stevie.”

“Oh, okay. Good.”

An awkward pause hung in the air between us.

“I guess I’ll get going, then.”

The cute, almost nervous grin on his face faded away, and I immediately missed it. “Oh. Okay.”

I got up from the bed and started gathering my clothes, pulling my underwear up my thighs and stepping into my shorts. Enzo looked like he wanted to say something but he wasn’t sure about it. The look in his eyes again made me wonder if he’d thought I was cute when he hired me. If maybe he’d liked something about me but never wanted to cross a line. Had I crossed that line for him? Had he wanted this all along?

I finished getting dressed as Enzo sat on the edge of the bed, still tripped up by his words, his deflating cock hanging between his thighs and a lonely dribble of abandoned white fluid dangling from the slit of his cock. In a moment, it would be swallowed up by his foreskin. A look somewhere between want and uncertainty was written on his face.

The discomfort of the moment was settling in around us. I felt misplaced, as though I had overstepped. Like the deed had been done and he wanted me out of his house.

“Alright, well, I hope you have a good weekend. I’ll be back to walk Rocco on Monday.”

“Sure,” he offered. “Thanks.”

I opened the door and turned to walk out before he finally found the courage to say what he must have been wanting to say the whole time. “Hey, Stevie…”

“Yeah?” I turned to look at him. He stood and approached me, resting his hand on the back of my neck, gripping it gently before dropping it to my shoulder, tracing the curve of my neck along the way. His touch made me weak, as though I might stumble and fall.

“Maybe we can do this again sometime?”

I smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Once he realized I was smiling, he smiled. “And maybe…” He trailed off. I looked him in those blue-green irises again, the ones that were as clear as pool water. His nervousness was intoxicating. “Maybe I could take you out sometime. To dinner?”

He then swooped in quickly and planted a kiss on my lips, sweet this time, full of want and hope and need. His proposition had shocked me. I could understand wanting to hook up again. Sex was easy. It was fun. But a date? What would this guy who clearly had a professional job and did alright for himself want with a dog walker with no foreseeable professional future?

He must have sensed my reticence, fumbling to locate the right words. “I think it’d be fun… to get to know you. You’re very kind. And sweet. And attractive. I’ve thought so since the first time I met you.”

“Uh…” I stumbled. Damn it, Stevie… find your words . “I didn’t know you felt that way. You just always seemed so—” A look of subdued disappointment appeared on his face. He thought I wasn’t interested. Shit. I immediately changed course. “Sure. Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Great.” He beamed, planting another soft kiss on my lips. “Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah.” I felt like such an idiot. I didn’t know what to say. But I wanted him. I wanted Enzo. I wanted to be in his presence. In his space. I just couldn’t figure out how to say it. “Sure.”

No. That wouldn’t do. It wasn’t good enough. I needed to let him know that I was excited and that I wanted him to take me out on a date. Try again, Stevie! “I mean… that sounds nice. I’d love to.”

“Great! I look forward to it.”

We grinned at each other nervously, and a sweet innocence rested between us. It’s funny how that can happen when two people who like each other have just had sex unexpectedly.

“And don’t worry,” he mentioned, sailing a devious smile my way. “Your secret’s safe with me.”