Dating : The Summer House Affair

A vacation I never intended to be this sex-crazed

I have always loved Lake Allure from the days when my parents bought our summer home all through my adolescence, and now that I’m dangerously close to forty and the house is mine I still love every minute I spend here.

It’s one of those places that draw you in, the smell of wood and water and trees and sunshine are all just so amazing it’s hard to put it into words. When I’m back in the city I can hardly stand or sit still for an hour, but out here I can spend a whole day stretched out on the porch and still feel productive.

It’s just solitary and social enough to get your fix of both, a garden barbecue party when you need to surround yourself with people and your own house in the middle of nowhere if you would rather be alone.

Today is a bit of a mix. I’m here at my house but for once I am not completely alone — thanks to Pete, who’s doing a hell of a job fixing up my broken window and giving the wooden wall a new coat of protective paint. We talked about it the other night during one of those parties, some mindless chatter to pass the time but it turned out that he was as much walk as talk and actually showed up at my place this morning, a bag full of tools strapped to his motorcycle and an explicit command to supply him with coffee and food and otherwise go about my day and don’t-you-worry-about-anything. He’s been hard at work for almost the whole day save for an hour of lunch and a short coffee break — but now that the afternoon progresses his work is coming to an end.

I haven’t done much reading if I’m honest, I tried but the book isn’t all that good and watching him work was incredibly relaxing, more than it had any right to be. At first I felt inclined to help, but he seemed so lost in his work and happy to do it that I realized I would only intrude on his peace of mind if I offered.

He’s attractive, too, not just the attraction I have to any man passionate about their work and life, but a much more primal attraction. He’s in his mid-twenties, his body is lean, his shoulders strong, his fingers skilled with the tools he wields — I can’t help but wonder if they would be as skilled if they dug into my shoulders, kneaded my skin and untied the knots in my muscles.

Half the time I spent wondering how to get him to do that to me, playing out different scenarios in my head of subtly hinting at my willingness to do, well, a lot of things. I also pondered foregoing subtlety completely, but it would have felt like cheapening the moment and I know I would be disappointed in myself.

But at least I can make him stay a while longer, the ice chest full of beer will make sure of that. He comes trotting over, sinks into chair next to me and lets his muscles rest.

I hand him a beer, thank him, tell him the house looks better now than when it was freshly built and he smiles, nods, sips and chats.

It’s back to mindless chatter again, but I make sure to inquire about his life, his work, his motorcycle and he is happy to tell me about his travels, how he enjoys just riding the bike until he runs out of gas, little more than a tent and a backpack and some food to get him through the day. I tell him how romantic that sounds; he says it is, but it also gets lonely. I tell him that yes, I know the feeling of loneliness, especially out here and how good it feels to have someone around for once.

It’s the best I can do for now, gauge his interest and see if his mind is hard at work trying to find a suitable come-on. It is, I can tell from the look in his eyes and he smiles and asks if I know a lot of the people in town. I deny, say that I mostly stick to myself, that it’s usually just what I want and need and then bend the conversation back on safer grounds.

He reaches for a beer and I intervene, tell him he has worked enough and that the least I can do is to do this job that I’m qualified for — and eventually my hand leaves his arm again. The touch felt great, for both of us if his smile and the gaze to his arm as if I burned him are anything to go by. He’s not used to being touched, his world is still one where the chicks act all cold and stone-faced but I can tell he wrestles with himself as he tries to figure out how to get more of that.

We talk a bit more, I tell him the story of how I was once locked inside the house for a weekend with the storm being so heavy that it wrecked my car, the phone lines were dead and by the end I had to survive on pasta found in the far end of the kitchen cupboards. He laughs, tells me that my worst days are just like his best, I smile and we talk cheap, healthy recipes for a while.

Then I turn around, rest my head on my arms and wonder aloud how a day of mostly lying around can feel so exhausting. My muscles ache, I complain, I have been around long enough to know better, haven’t I?

Pete gets up, sits down next to me, his fingers still cold from the bottle as they run over my shoulders just like I wanted him to. That’s not what I meant, I say, but I make sure he sees my smile as I stretch out and try to take all resistance out of my muscles.

Oh yes, he grins, that’s exactly what you meant. I smile, then nod, then say something about being too easy to read. His fingers catch on my shirt, then glide down again, up towards my shoulders and follow the contours of my arms, only to stop short of touching my nose. My neck, my spine, they all feel the tender touch of a man willing to give me just a little more than he already has. Someone who takes pleasure from giving others pleasure, a helpful man as there are so few left. I can tell he’s not playing nice to get to me, if he did he would try to tease me a little, see how far he can go and I wouldn’t feel his fingers through a thin layer of fabric.

He will spend the rest of the day like this if I let him, his hip touching mine in a weirdly acrobatic position he could make a lot more comfortable by just getting on top of me. But that would be too much, he wants to make sure this stays comfortable for me and he’s incredibly happy I let him come this far. If I don’t say a word until it’s time to say goodbye he will still leave with a happy smile on his face, my shoulders are payment enough for him.

“You know, you can make yourself comfortable,” I say, “not worth having your back hurt by the time mine doesn’t.”

He nods, I can feel the movement in his fingers, then he gets on top of me and I feel his crotch pressed against my butt, the inside of his thighs against the outside of mine. He makes sure to keep his dick hovering an inch away from me to be polite so I can not tell if he’s just hard or really hard by now. His mind races while his fingers slow down, we don’t need the movement so much as the touch itself.

I wonder what a struggle it would be to remove my shirt now, almost impossible with the way I’m pinned down and really do I even need to? Isn’t it time to skip the pleasantries, get down and dirty? It is, but how to communicate that? Any other guy would have me play catch up to their hunger and lust, but Pete has this most annoying of skills called patience.

I don’t.

I try to wiggle and turn, want to say something but all that comes out is a moan — but that communicates well enough on its own.

Pete has long understood my needs, but he needed his little push to, well, push ahead.

But now that he’s gotten his sign he doesn’t hesitate, his fingers slide under my waistband and push down my pants, just past my butt cheeks so his hands have easy access to my pussy.

He doesn’t linger, pushing right into me with two fingers, careful but strong at the same time. I can’t help another moan, then I let my head sink down and close my eyes. My work is done, now I just need to lie and wait and let him do his thing.

His knuckles rub against my thighs, his fingers slide into me and twist and turn once inside — so frequent that I lose track of whether they are in or out. His hand reaches for my neck, grabs it, pushes me into the pillow, holds me in place so his fingers can thrust into me even harder, deeper. I have no wiggle room left, no escape even if I wanted one. I hold onto the edges of the seat, stabilize myself against reality and part of me wonders why he hasn’t even cared about sliding his dick into me yet.

Then the thought is lost, together with any other coherent thinking and all air is pushed out of me as I desperately swim for the surface, nearly fainting when I do. I’m still where I started, still stretched out on the porch with my breath, body and mind at the control of a stranger’s fingers.

Or no, he doesn’t really feel like a stranger anymore, not after his tender touches and giving my body what it needed.

It’s only when my breath slows down again and the fog on my mind clears that I notice him shift his weight, keeping me pinned down while he struggles out of his cargo pants, his shorts, makes me shiver all over again as I feel the tip of his dick touch my butt cheeks, tease me with what’s to come.

“You ready?” he asks, a friendly nagging tone to his voice that tells me he would stop if I asked him to.

I’m not ready, how could I be? And how could I deny him some pleasure after all he’s done for me today? I just smile and nod, then wince a moment later as he slides into me, my pussy still wet and sensitive, and for a moment he goes all slow and cute on me.

A long, deep thrust that doesn’t seem to end, then a half back and then all the way in again. Slow, unsteady, then all out and all in, driving me crazy with how much I want him to take me. I realize that my body can still take some more, I could have done with a break but now that we’re at it again I can hardly wait for him to pick up his pace.

He’s large enough to stretch me, but not too large for me to enjoy it. Just the right amount of meat to get me up to speed, which a moment later I am. I lift up my hips, spread my legs a little further, take him in all the way and soon we both get lost in the rhythm.

I don’t mind him being there, if anything I mind when he’s suddenly gone from my midst, but then again I can’t help but love the hot, sticky cum soaking through the shirt and making it stick to my back. My butt cheeks get their own fair share, I feel the last few drops hitting and just keep lying down while I feel the cum run down my sides.

I don’t want to move, don’t want to say anything, but I feel I need to thank him somehow. So I turn around under him, look into his exhausted face while he still keeps himself steadied on his arms, his dick growing limp as we both look and smile at each other.

“That,” I say, “was just what I needed today.”

He smiles, pushes my shirt up a little to leave a kiss on my stomach and gets up to reach for his pants, his stance a little unsteady from beer and fucking, and I can tell he’s in no state to hop on his motorcycle.

“Just stay here for tonight, you can always head home tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, his eyes seem to say, tomorrow is Sunday and I won’t do anything productive all day.