Open Door
My parents left Friday after lunch. By four I had the house to myself, the blinds half-drawn, and a bottle of poppers I wasn’t supposed to know how to buy.
Twenty-three. Slim. Smooth. The kind of body that looks smaller on a couch than it does in a doorway.
I decided it was the day… to be a cheap slut.
Doublelist. Open door. Cumdump. No names. Daddies, married, discreet. I said the door would be unlocked at seven. I said I would be on the couch on all fours, ass facing the door. I said don’t talk if you don’t want to. I said I like older.
The replies came in a stack. I ignored the ones that wrote novels. I opened the one that sent two pictures and four dry sentences.
Fishing with three other guys on a dock. Short military hair, already thinning in front, that Tintin peak starting to show. No smile. Second photo was his cock in a bathroom mirror, long, cut, not porn-thick, just long, uncut, held in a hand that looked like it had done real work. Caption:
44. Married. Kids. Army. Never done ass. Need to fuck something tonight. No kissing. No names. I’ll be in and out.
I typed back the address and door open 7.
He sent back: k.
That was why I picked him.
I stripped down to a white jock, tied a cheap black blindfold across my eyes and then shoved it up onto my forehead so I could still peek.
At 6:52 I locked my bedroom, left the front door unlatched, put the lube on the coffee table, and got on the sofa the way I’d written it. All fours. Ass toward the door. Face toward the big mirror on the far wall so I could watch whoever walked in without turning my head. I was curious, shaking, nervous. Jockstrap framing everything. Poppers in my right hand.
The living room was quiet except for the AC. Vertical blinds. Cat tree in the corner that wasn’t mine — leftover from when my mom thought we were getting a cat. A mattress topper I’d dragged onto the sofa because the cushions sank too much. From the door you walked straight into this room. No hallway. No warning.
At 7:04 the door opened.
He didn’t knock.
In the mirror he was taller than the photos. Beige khaki slacks. Black belt. Black polo tucked in. Black socks when he toed off the shoes without untying them. Short dark hair, faded on the sides, that widow’s peak catching the light from the blinds. No beard.
Face like he’d left the house to do an errand for his wife and the errand had turned into this. Closed. Tight around the mouth. Eyes that scanned the room once — me, the mirror, the lube — and then stopped looking at my face.
He shut the door with his foot.
Didn’t say hello.
He unbuckled while he walked. Belt open. Slacks down. Boxers with them. He left the polo on, yanked it up and hooked it behind his neck so his chest and stomach were out and the shirt wouldn’t get in the way. Athletic for forty-four, going soft in the middle. Dad bod starting. Almost no hair on him except the pits and a tight patch of pubic hair. Military ink on one arm and across the top of his back when he turned — dark, old, the kind you get because the unit did it, not because you liked pretty things.
He picked up the lube like it was a tool from the garage.
In the mirror I watched him pour it into his palm and stroke himself the way a man pumps a handle. Mechanical. No show. No eye contact. His cock filled out long and straight, getting shiny, the motion efficient and a little angry. His jaw never loosened. He looked like he was late for something.
Then he stepped in behind me and squeezed a cold stripe of lube right down my crack and pushed it in with two fingers like he was wiping a stain off a towel. No circling. No checking. Just in. I jumped. He didn’t apologize. He put more on until it ran down my balls onto the jock. Then he set the open bottle on the small of my back.
The plastic sat there. Heavy enough to feel. I was a surface for him.
He moved in. I felt the slick head of him notch against me. I cracked the poppers, shoved the bottle under my nose, and pulled a hit that lit the inside of my skull white.
He shoved in all at once.
Not halfway. All of it. Long and sudden and I was tight and the sound I made was punched out of me, pain and heat braided, my arms sliding on the fabric. In the mirror his face didn’t change except the mouth going thinner.
“Take it, fagott.”
Low. Mad. Like I’d done this to him.
He gave me two thrusts. Three. Hard enough the sofa jumped. Then he huffed through his nose, disappointed, like the thing he’d driven over here for wasn’t what the ad promised.
“Fuck this shit.”
He pulled out.
I didn’t feel him cum. I thought that was it. I thought he was going to dress and leave and I’d be on the couch with an open door and a bottle on my back like an idiot. In the mirror I watched him grab a towel off the arm of the chair — the one I’d left out without thinking — and wipe his cock down, brisk, annoyed. He was still hard. Long. Wet. He opened the lube again and poured another mess into his palm and stroked, same mechanical pump, getting it slicker, getting himself all the way stiff again. Then he tossed the bottle onto my back. It rolled and settled against my spine.
He lined up and slammed back in in one stroke.
No ceremony. I hit the poppers again and the rush met the stretch and my hole took him easier the second time because I was already open and sloppy with product. He bottomed out and stayed there a second, breathing through his teeth.
“Just take it, faggot. Be quiet.”
I bit the cushion.
Then he started hammering.
Not a rhythm you could count. A pneumatic thing. Short, brutal, full-length strokes that smacked his hips into my ass and made the sofa legs scrape. He pressed my cheeks apart with both thumbs and used me like the job was to finish as fast as possible and get back to the truck. The polo bounced against his neck. Black socks. In the mirror his face stayed closed — eyes down on where he was going in, mouth a hard line, that unfriendly look like he hated that this was what he needed.
Ten seconds. Maybe fifteen. I lost it in the poppers.
“I’m gonna cum real quick. Don’t move, faggot.”
I froze.
He didn’t slow down. He sped up. The sound in the room went filthy and loud, lube slapping, skin, the sofa complaining. Porn could never catch this level of rawness. Then he started making noise. Not dirty talk. Animal. Angry. A grunt that turned into a growl that turned into something that belonged on a range, not in my parents’ living room. He slammed in to the root and stayed there pumping through it, hips jerking, filling me in thick pulses I could feel as heat and weight, still hammering like stopping would mean he’d have to think.
I moaned into the fabric. I felt myself get wetter from the inside.
He pulled out.
Clicked his tongue. Tsc. Mad at himself. Mad at the room. Mad that he’d done it.
He wiped off with the towel again. Pulled the polo down off his neck. Boxers. Khakis. Belt. Shoes stamped on. He didn’t look at my face in the mirror. He didn’t look at the load starting to leak out of me onto the jock. He walked to the door the same way he’d walked in — a man finished with an errand. The door slammed hard.
The house went quiet except the AC and my breathing.
I reached back with two fingers and pulled. His cum came out thick and warm onto my hand. I stayed on all fours in front of the mirror, blindfold still half on, jockstraps, and jerked myself with his load as lube. Another hit of poppers. I was open, shiny, leaking a married stranger who’d said take it like an order and left like he’d never been here.
I came hard onto the mattress topper, shaking, fingers still in myself, the smell of him and the poppers and the lube all in the same breath.
The bottle was still on the floor where it had rolled off my back.
The door was still unlocked.
I didn’t lock it.
I was officially a cumdump and I knew I was gonna get addicted to it.
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