Stranger at the Door

by Habu

29 Dec 2017 7280 readers Score 8.6 (85 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


I picked the extra wine glass up from the coffee table, took it into the kitchen, and put it back in the cupboard. I wasn’t surprised. In fact I’d really known for a couple of hours that Emmet wasn’t going to make it up to Wintergreen for the weekend. It had been snowing all day in the mountains, and my vacation house was nearly the last one on Pine Trail, winding around the mountain a third of the way down from the ski lifts at the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains resort.

The house further in from mine, the Albrechts’ A-frame, had a few lights on, but I’d seen them down in Waynesboro Thursday evening, at the Kroger grocery store, and they said they’d be up in D.C. for the weekend. They must have loaned the house out. I hoped their guests wouldn’t be disappointed about being snowed in. Of course, if they’d come to ski, they could wade their way up to the lifts and ski back down a short way to the house. I wonder if they knew that. I might go over and make sure they did—if I could get the gumption to go out in this snow myself. It was beginning to drift.

The house on the other side of me, the more substantial log house the Logans owned had had lights on earlier too—I got more of a glow from that direction over the treetops than being able to see the actual house. It was a good bit lower than my house in elevation and on a nasty twisting and rising curve that would be hard to navigate in this weather.

I went back to the living room and settled in to watch the DVD I’d put on, a gay male sex one that was making an attempt, not too successfully, of padding out the sex scenes with a background story. I’d picked it because I thought the actors were hot—not necessarily as actors, but certainly as sex partners—and there was a black guy who looked a lot like Emmet and a bit older blond who I could see as me. I had been warming myself up for Emmet’s appearance, but now he wasn’t coming. He’d called me and said he didn’t think he could chance it unless he hopped on a snowplow. I’d told him not to bother, hoping that he would bother, but he’d said he wouldn’t.

So, there went the weekend. I didn’t even know whether the electricity would hold up here on the mountain in snow like this. At least I had a lot of firewood in and had had this house built with fireplaces and double insulation that could provide for heat, as necessary.

I was deciding whether to go take a shower and dress more warmly after the DVD was finished when I heard the door chimes sound. In anticipation of Emmet, I wasn’t wearing anything under the Henley shirt and faded low-rise blue jeans I had on. I’d really planned on a sexually satisfying weekend.

And maybe, I thought, as I clicked off the DVD and went out to the foyer to answer the door, Emmet had hopped a snowplow after all and the weekend would be saved.

But that wasn’t the case. When I turned on the front porch light, I saw that a stranger, bundled up in a parka and a floppy-eared hat, was standing out there, shivering in the cold, and blowing on his hands to warm them.

I opened the door.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for someplace I can make a call. My cell phone is dead and I’ve just gone off the road on a curve. Banged my car up pretty bad. I need to call AAA.”

“On the curve?” I asked. “That would be in front of the Logans’ house. They should be home.”

“I didn’t see any lights in any house but yours. Sorry. I can go back and—”

“No, no,” I said. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight. You certainly can come in and make a call—assuming I still have phone service. The electricity is still on, so maybe the phone . . .” Just then the lights flickered, though, so I reached out and tugged on the arm of his parka to let him know he could come in. “You’d best hurry in and try to make the call,” I said, “And you may be out of luck on AAA for a while in these conditions. There’s a landline phone over there on the kitchen wall, but you can use my cell phone, if you want. I have AAA dialed in. The cell phone is on the kitchen island over there.”

“Thanks,” he said, as he entered. He shook my hand as he slipped off the parka and was going by me. I was surprised to find that his hand was warm. I was also surprised to see that he was wearing a muscle T-shirt over tight jeans under the parka and was built solid and had a dark, sultry look about him. He looked like one of the porn stars I’d just been watching in the DVD. “My name’s Brad,” he said as he moved beyond me.

“I’m Justin,” I said. “Can I get you something to drink while you’re making your call?”

“If you have it, a beer would be nice, thanks,” he said, as he picked up the cell phone and moved back into the corridor to the bedrooms to make his call. Before I went into the kitchen, I watched him slouch against the corridor wall, the small of his back against the wall and his legs stretched out before him into the corridor and spread a bit. I thought of it as a Marlon Brando stance. He reminded me a lot of Brando in his Streetcar days rather than his bloated afterlife. The man had that sensuous, pouty aura about him that Brando exuded in the sexy phase of his life.

I felt tingly inside. It obviously was from having been watching sex DVDs while waiting for Emmet and anticipating what Emmet and I would be doing tonight. But not doing now, I remembered, as I went into the kitchen and broke out a beer. I took the wine bottle back into the living room along with the beer and replenished my wine glass while putting his beer—Brad, he had said—on the coffee table. The big leather couch faced the TV. There were leather recliners set across from the couch and beside the TV credenza and, on second thought, I moved my wine glass to a side table beside one of these.

As I passed the opening to the bedroom corridor, I could hear him on the phone. He wasn’t sounding too hopeful. I wasn’t surprised by that, and my mind was already working on what could be done other than offering him a place to stay. But I couldn’t think of any reason I shouldn’t ask him to stay other than that he was a complete stranger and, despite that, I could feel I’d gone hard in comparing him to Marlon Brando. But was I set up for a house guest? Emmet, of course, would have slept in my bed with me. The bed wasn’t made in the guest room. I’d have to do that, and I couldn’t remember if there were towels in the guest bath. But I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe AAA was on its way and he wanted to be on his way as well. I found myself looking at myself in the hall mirror and wondering if I was good enough for him. That made me laugh and chastise myself. Talk about getting ahead of yourself.

“It’s no go on AAA for a while—not until tomorrow they said,” Brad said when he came back and put the cell phone on the kitchen island. “Guess I’ll have to try to hoof it out to the main road. Is it better for me to go up or down? I didn’t see much that might be open at the foot of the mountain. Is there a lodge up at the top?”

“Yes, there’s a lodge up there, but it would be tough going on foot in this snow. And you have an open beer here. Come on in and take a load off.”

I don’t know if I was planning even then for him to stay and fuck me, but all the signs pointed to that. I was keyed up for an Emmet visitation—had even gotten a start on viewing the DVD—and this guy was a hunk in a tough guy Marlon Brando sort of way. His T-shirt was showing off a great set of pectorals with hard nipples standing out under the tight material, he had a mighty fine six pack, and his jeans were tight enough that I could see an impressive bulge and follow the line of a long cock. I was close to hyperventilated from the buildup of need.

I wondered if he was straight. I had to say he didn’t act one way or the other yet. Most of my friends were gay, though, so I didn’t often have to wonder about someone I met who I was interested in sexually.

But was I interested in Brad sexually? I’m afraid that ship had sailed. I had been so keyed up for Emmet and had just watched a gay fuck video. Why wouldn’t I be interested in a hunk like Brad sexually?

We chatted for a while. I told him of the restaurants I owned in Waynesboro and Charlottesville and that I was up here for the weekend to take in the skiing with a friend of mine, a professor at the University of Virginia, but that the friend couldn’t make it up here tonight.

“Your friend a man or a woman?” he asked.

“A man,” I said without thinking of what inference he could get from that. But it was meaningful that he asked and was prepared to hear the friend was male. I tried finding out something about him, in turn, that would help me categorize him, but other than saying he worked in construction, he didn’t reveal much. He even deflected the conversation the couple of times I asked how his car came to be in a snow bank this far into a dead-end mountain road. I probably should have pursued that more closely, but I found him disconcerting, sitting—more slouching—on the leather couch, with his legs spread and being all sultry and pouty, across from where I was sitting in the recliner.

The conversation had come to an awkward halt a couple of times, with him saying he should get out in the snow, but accepting a second beer, and then him saying he should start trudging up to the lodge but not moving, so I got the message that he wasn’t that anxious to get out in the snow.

God help me, but I wasn’t anxious for him to leave either. And it wasn’t hard to figure he was playing me—taking me to the brink of begging him to stay. He must have known by now that I wanted him to fuck me. I wasn’t too subtle when I was heat, and I moved deeper in heat the longer he sat here in my living room. I didn’t care if he was playing me. It was part of what aroused me. At this point, if I had to beg him to stay, I would. My ass was twitching. I wanted it; I wanted him.

“It’s still snowing,” I said, looking out the wall to ceiling window that looked up the hill at the Albrechts’ house, where the lights were all off now. “You won’t get anywhere on foot tonight, and you’ll need to be here for whenever AAA can get to your car. You’ll have to spend the night here. I’ve got a guest room. Just let me go in and get sheets on the bed and make sure there are towels in the bath. I’ll get you another beer while I’m up.”

He didn’t object to spending the night. He didn’t object to having another beer either.

As I was leaving to go back to prepare a bedroom for him, he said, almost casually, “You know, now that you mention it, I know about you and your restaurants. John Knowles told me about you. Do you know John Knowles?” That stopped me in my tracks.

“No, I can’t say that I do,” I answered. But a chill had gone up my spine. I knew John Knowles quite well. He moved in my social circle in Charlottesville. He was a bottom, as I was. What did Brad know about me, I wondered. Was he playing me. I stopped at the kitchen counter and picked up my cell phone and checked the last call made on it. It was one of my calls, not a call to AAA. My mind was spinning as I went back to the bedrooms. What the fuck was going on here?

When I came back out, he’d rid himself of the T-shirt, had his legs spread and his feet on the coffee table. His fly was unzipped and a fat ole cock was standing straight up from the flared jeans. He’d turned the DVD on and was watching a sex scene and stroking his cock.

“You know, you don’t have to set up a guest room just for me,” he said. “I could sleep in your bed with you.”

“Uh, I didn’t mean for that to be on,” I said, my voice slightly shaking and not having something to come back with on his direct proposition. “Maybe you should turn it off, and . . .”

“And stop beating off?” he asked, turning a sneery look at me.

“Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t actually say you wanted me to stay and fuck you, but you do, don’t you?” he said. “You don’t want me to put my cock away, do you? You don’t want me to use the guest room.” He made to do so—to fold his cock back into his fly—and I groaned and involuntarily reached a hand out. He laughed.

I couldn’t think of anything to say. Is that what I really wanted? And, if so, had it been so obvious?

“One of these guys, the blond there, looks just like you. Is that why you’re watching this vid? You’re fantasizing being fucked like the blond in this vid, aren’t you?”

“This is getting a little out of hand,” I said, putting a bit of bite into my voice. It was one thing for me to fantasize this guy fucking me; it was quite another for him to be so forward. “Maybe we should back up a bit.”

“We could do that, but we’d be wasting pleasure time,” he answered, with a knowing smile. “John Knowles claims he does know you. He told me you took cock. You do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said meekly, defeated. I wanted someone to fuck me so bad—and now, not some later date.

“And one of the other guys in this vid looks like this guy who was supposed to come up here tonight, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said in a small voice.

“Which one?”

“The black one.”

“Nice. He does you real well in the vid. Does your guy—did you say his name was Emmet?—do you that well—as well as the hung ball bull in the vid performs?”

“Yes.”

“I can do you that well. Come over here. Come over to the couch.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think—”

“Come here. Kneel to me. Suck me off. Do it.”

I was a submissive. John Knowles had probably told him that too—that I folded immediately to domination. I responded to commands. He lifted a leg off the coffee table to allow me to slip in between his legs and kneel in front of the couch. He put the leg back down, bracketing my body, and I took his cock in my mouth. He broke contact long enough to pull the Henley over my head and I resumed sucking him hard as a rock. The DVD continued to run, with the only sounds from the couch being the slurping sounds I was making, my occasional gag as he forced me to take him deep, and his mutterings of what he was going to do to me after I’d sucked him hard as hard could be.

At length he brought his legs down off the coffee table and raised me up, turned me and laid me down on my belly across the couch. “Up on your knees,” he commanded. “Give me your ass,” and I meekly did what he demanded of me. He laughed when he unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and pulled them down to my ankles, finding I was wearing no briefs.

“You were ready for your boyfriend, weren’t you?” he growled.

“Yes,” I answered.

“So, I’ll be your boyfriend for the night.”

“Yes,” I answered. Then I was panting and moaning and rocking my pelvis back into his face as he pulled my cock through my legs and gave that, my balls, and my ass attention with his tongue. I opened quickly to him. I had been anticipating this all day. Just not from a stranger. That didn’t keep me from opening for Brad, though. He fiddled around in the pockets of his jeans, now bunched on the floor in front of the couch under mine, came up with a condom disk, and crowned himself. Then he mounted me, crouched over my body, and forced himself inside, as I groaned and grunted and felt my channel walls give—actually pull him inside me. My channel muscles rippled over the hard cock. There was no question that I welcomed this—that I wanted it, that I needed it.

“You do it. If you want it, you do it. Show me you want it,” he said, and he stopped pumping and held there, while I took over, rhythmically rocking back on the cock, fucking myself on it—embarrassed and cowed, but, yes, wanting it; wanting it badly enough to fuck myself on the cock. I stretched my arms straight out from my body in both directions, gripping opposite edges of the coffee table to hold myself steady while I rocked back on the cock. After a few minutes, he laughed, and took over the thrusting again.

He fucked me for several minutes, with the DVD still running. It was a two-hour show. It had nearly an hour left to run and, I couldn’t help it, I hoped the fuck would continue for that whole time.

Before either of us were done, though, he pulled out of and off me and said. “Over in the chair. I want you to do it. You have to show that you want it.”

He was off the couch and went over to the recliner I had been in, slouched into it, made it recline, and grabbed his cock and held it upright. “Come here. Sit on it. Ride it,” he commanded.

I mounted him on the chair, descended on the cock and rose and fell on it with him holding my waist and helping me to slam up and down on the cock. Just as we both came, the lights flickered and then went out. I collapsed on top of him and we lay there in the chair for a few minutes, him embracing me, both of us feeling him go flaccid inside me—but not all the way. He remained half hard. Only then, with the lights out, did I realize that the DVD had run its course. We’d been fucking for an hour or more.

I felt the beating of his heart as he cooled down. I wasn’t cooling down as quickly. I was still excited. This unexpected fuck by a stranger kept me keyed up.

“Where is your bedroom?” I heard him ask.

“Down the hall and to the left,” I answered.

“Is that where this boyfriend of yours—Emmet, was it?—was going to fuck you tonight? In your bedroom?”

“Yes.”

He hauled us both out of the chair, slung me over his shoulder, and lunging this way and that way and barely keeping from banging into the furniture on either side, headed back to the bedroom corridor. At the opening into the corridor, he banged my head against the wall. But I didn’t care. All I could think of was that I was going to be fucked again—on my bed—in the dark, by a young Marlon Brando.

“Where do you keep them,” he asked after he’d tossed me on the bed. “No reason to use mine if you have them.” I rolled over and opened the top drawer of my nightstand and retrieved a condom packet.

While I was doing that, he went to the fireplace and lit it. I’d already laid the firewood in anticipation that the electricity—and thus the heat—would go off at some point in the storm. After he’d lit the fire, he came over to the bed and went down on his knees on the mattress beside me. “You do it. Crown me,” he demanded. I rolled the condom on his erect cock.

Once again, saying it had to be because I wanted it, he made me do the work. He was controlling me with the tease and more than a hint of humiliation, making me beg for it and demonstrate my submissiveness to him. But he was reading me correctly. He had me under his control. I would do anything he told me to do as long as he gave me the cock.

He lay on his back on the bed and put me on top of him, in a reverse crab position, facing him, with my arms slung back, my fists buried in the mattress, and my legs bent, my feet planted on either side of his waist, with him fisting my ankles, and I was skewered on his cock. I rose and fell on the cock and he thrust up into me. I was trembling and nearly exhausted when we’d come.

He fucked me to exhaustion in various positions and we both dozed off, stretched against each other in the flickering light and heat coming from the fireplace at the foot of the bed. When I woke, he was gone. I turned and looked at the clock, aware that what had awakened me was the electricity coming back on. It was barely midnight. Still, the stranger had fucked me for over two hours. I wondered where he was.

I realized it wasn’t just the restoration of the electricity that had awakened me. Someone was outside, ringing the doorbell and beating on the door. Had he—Brad, I think he said—somehow locked himself out of the house? I rolled out of bed, reached for the sleeping shorts I’d put in a chair near the bed earlier in the day in anticipation of sleeping in them, and padded out to the foyer.

Brad’s parka and floppy hat were gone. It wasn’t him at the door. It was Emmet.

“Emmet. You made it,” I said, hoping that Brad indeed was gone and suddenly concerned about what had been left behind. Beer bottles in the living room. Emmet drank beer and that’s why I had it on hand. I didn’t drink beer. I drank wine, and Emmet knew I didn’t drink beer. My clothes on the floor in front of the couch. The TV humming, with the DVD in the slot. And condoms. Where had the condoms gone?

“Yes. I did catch a snowplow. But I can only stay the night, I’m afraid. There’s a crisis in my department and the chairman has called a meeting for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Did you have to walk from the accident in front of the Logans’ house? Did the snowplow have to leave you there?”

“What accident?”

“I think there was a car accident. A car went off the road on that curve we’re always careful about.”

“No car there, and no sign of one.”

“OK, well, come on in and get that coat off.” I was looking into the living room as he took his coat off, panicked at what I could see in there of the evidence of the debauchery earlier in the evening.

Mercifully, the power went out again right at that moment.

“Shit,” I said, although only halfheartedly. Maybe this would be OK, I thought. Maybe after he went to sleep.

Right on cue Emmet said. “I’m bushed, and we don’t have much time. Maybe—”

“Come on back to the bedroom,” I said. “It’s warmer there. I’ve had a fire going and I can lay another one.”

I remade the fire as Emmet stripped and retrieved lube and a condom from the nightstand drawer. Even in the dark he easily found it. He’d done this before. When I came back to the bed, I stepped on something squishy. The condom from Brad’s fuck, I realized, and I kicked it under the bed before I climbed in and laid down on my back.

Emmet fucked me in the missionary position—satisfying but not the variety Brad had employed—his knees pressed under my buttocks, lifting my pelvis to him. He leaned over me, holding my arms up and out on the top of the bed, fisting my wrists in his big, brown hands. He was thick and long inside me. If he sensed that I already was open, he made no remark of it. He started slow, but we quickly found a more vigorous rhythm of moving together and he pounded me long and hard before tensing, jerking, and coming in the sheath inside me. He rolled off to the side and was snoring in short order.

Quietly, I rolled out of the bed on the opposite side of him and padded out to the living room. I was tidying that up when I realized that the lights were on in the Albrecht house at the end of the road. I went over to the window and looked at the house.

He was standing naked, in the full wall of glass of the A-frame cottage, backed by lights inside. He was smoking a cigarette and staring at my house. Brad’s body was as beautiful backlit like this as it had been when he had been standing in my living room, under me in the chair, and fucking me in my bed.

I was sure he couldn’t see him, but I realized there was a light on in my kitchen, so maybe he could. He certainly had been able to see me from there earlier in the evening, slouched in the sofa and jerking off to the sex tape.

He confirmed he could by waving at me and blowing me an air kiss. Instead of pulling away, out of his sight, I turned on the lights in my living room. Now we each could clearly see the other. He took his cock in his hand. I was as naked as he was. And now I was as erect as he was too. We stood there, facing each other from across the snowy divide, and masturbated. I watched him jerking off and he watched me jerking off.

As if there was a mental connection, we both were working to come simultaneously. We came close to managing it, with him, as could be expected, demanding that I come first. My spunk arced and splashed against the glass window. His did so soon thereafter. He saluted me and the power in both houses, as if on cue, went out again.

I had had a stab of disappointment when Emmet said he could only stay the night, not the weekend. But now, thinking of the possibilities with Brad if he was staying the weekend, I wasn’t disappointed anymore.

Happy New Year.

by Habu

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