I hear a creak in the floorboards, outside my door. I hope it’s you.

I’m on the bed, naked on my belly, my arms up under my head, which is turned away from the door, the sheet just covering my legs, my ass exposed. The window is open, the summer sunshine slanting in through it, filling the white, rustic room with light, while a soft afternoon breeze gently rocks the curtains back and forth.

I’m just taking a nap, I can say, if it isn’t you, and with my head turned, I can’t see; could it be Mrs. Franklin, who runs this small B&B in the middle of the New Hampshire woods? Maybe another guest that’s arrived?

But when I hear the creak outside my door again, I shift my legs under the pretense of a mid-doze readjustment, in order to present my ass. I know that’s what you like; at the spacious, Adirondack-chair ringed fire pit last night (your first night here on a fly fishing holiday) you had one too many of our host’s boozy lemonades and made a playful comment about said ass in my tight biking shorts, having seen me in them when I came back from my morning ride as you were checking in to Mrs. Franklin’s little cabin. You went silent after realizing your faux-pas; then you made sure to talk about your wife, about all the sports, the whole dudeness of your life, but after I found the right moment to mention your own ass, you turned red and excused yourself (not before seeing what had developed in the crotch of your pants), leaving Mrs. Franklin and me by the crackling fire, listening to the crickets and picking out constellations.

I like putting myself on display, so even if it isn’t you, whoever it is should be impressed. I work hard for this body, slim, fit, swimming and biking, tanned from regular trips to The Ledges over in Vermont, and my firm butt is worth being looked at. You made that comment about my ass at the fire and all I wanted, wife and bros and tee times aside, was to show off for you. To tempt you. To see where I could take things. Take you.

I imagine the sliver of doorway into this hot and stuffy room, the quiet, the birds outside singing to each other, and there is a third creak—you shifting your weight to get a better look, maybe. I hope.

I turn my head. Wait. I open my eyes.

There you are.

We make eye contact, but you immediately shrink back into the hallway.

I call out your name in a play-drowsy voice, because I caught you, and I know you'll have to respond: you have to show you weren't spying. Like you’re not some pervert.

I try again. “Is that you, bro?” Bro. I actually say bro.

You are quiet. You apologize. You didn’t mean to wake me, all of this from the hallway, out of sight, so I make a loud yawn and stretch and tell you to come in, because I can't hear you.

You hesitate. You tell me Mrs. Franklin is organizing the garage, found some bikes, and thought we might like to use them, your voice echoing in the sunlit hallway. I quietly bless Mrs. Franklin for unknowingly playing her part.

“Come in, man. I can’t hear you.”

You slowly bring your head into the doorway, looking down.

“What did you say?”

You tell the floor that Mrs. Franklin has some bikes that she brought out of her garage—

“Hey,” I say. “Look at me.”

You’re breathing heavily through your nose. The conflict in your face is making my dick harder. I'm glad I'm lying on top of it, or else it might scare you away. You look up. Try to make a noncommittal face. But your eyes tell me everything, and your shallow breathing confirms it.

“Come in,” I say. "Seriously, dude, I'm just naked."

You stammer and tell me you’ve got to go, but you don't move, your head still in the doorway, your blush darkening. I lift myself up on my elbows.

Softly, with determined eye contact, I tell you to come into the room.

Your mouth starts moving. You swallow. You look like you could use a drink. You step into the doorway, still in the hall, but still making eye contact. You don’t know what to do with your hands. You look back down the hall, towards the stairwell, towards the garage with Mrs. Franklin, towards that life you’ve got outside this B&B, but you’re here, now, only one of two guests, the proprietor out in the garage, all alone with me in the middle of nowhere, where no one will know what you're doing. What we could do.

You look back at me, you take a deep breath, and step into the room.

“It’s okay," I say. "You can look at me. I was hoping you would."

I watch you as your eyes move down to the two scoops of my ass. I watch your mouth as it goes slack slightly. I watch your chest as it swells and settles quickly.

“Do you want to touch me?”

You lock eyes with me.

“Touch me.”

You try to say something but the words dry out before they can make your lips.

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay. You can touch me. Any way you want to. It's just us, here.”

I turn my head away and put it back down on the pillow. Maybe looking at you is making you nervous, and I've got you in the room, so turning away makes me think (hope) you'll not feel pressured. I can hear you, I can feel your presence in the room, and then: an electric jolt, my hairs stand on end, as I feel your fingertips, gently, tentatively, touch my back, up at my shoulders. You make tentative little circles. Then you trace them down my back, along the curve of my ass cheek. Then the other. Then you grab one, like a handful of clay.

“Mmm. You like it?” I ask.

You reply with a small, dry whimper of affirmation.

“Take the sheet off me,” I say. You do, and I feel the cloth dragging, rubbing against my legs as you pull it to the floor, then, after a moment, both of your hands are smoothing my ass, down my corded thighs and calves, all the way back up to my shoulders, to my arms. Your palms, light as sunshine.

I tell you it feels good.

I tell you it’s making my dick so hard.

Your fingers stop. For a moment I worry that maybe I've gone too far. I turn my head to look at you. You’re standing there, looking at my body, and you flash eye contact with me, then look back at my ass.

“Do you want to see? Do you want to see how hard you made my dick?”

You swallow. Nod.

And I turn over, slowly, watching you eye my midsection like anticipating a gift, and that’s exactly what I give you, as my hard 8 inches of manhood swings out, independently of my hips, finding its place of rest straight up as I prop myself up on my elbows. A tiny pinprick of precum buttoned at the top.

Your breathing is shallower now. I look down and see something private of your own, pressing against your shorts. I want it. Seeing how hard I made you elevates my own blood pressure. Now my mouth is dry.

“You can be naked, too, you know,” I say, and you look at me right away. There’s a smile. “Come on. It’s okay.”

You lick your lips. You kick off your sandals, you slip off your shorts, you take off your shirt, quickly, as if you don't want to give yourself a second thought, and what’s left is a trim, lustful body with a straight, rock hard cock, springing up and down from a small, manicured bush of dark hair, your precum dripping already. You bring a hand to your mouth, spit into your fingers, and then rub your dick with it. You take a step to the bed. You tell me you want to fuck me.

My heart drops in excitement.

I bite my lower lip. Smile conspiratorially. "You want to fuck me?" I ask, quietly. I stand up to meet you, our cocks clanging together, and I put my face close to yours, to feel your breathing, and move my mouth close to your ear. I can smell your aftershave. Your shampoo. Your tanning lotion. I whisper: I tell you to use me however you want. I tell you to fuck me however you want. I feel your dick flinch and bang into mine. Your eyes are determined. There is no turning back, now, and you take my shoulders in your hands and turn me around. I let out an excited laugh, I say "Ohhh, yeah" as you bend me over the bed, my chest is on the bed, my ass up in the air. I use my hands to spread my cheeks.

"Do it, then," I say, my whisper turning into a commanding coo. "Fuck me. Fuck me with that gorgeous cock ba—byUNH—FUCK."

My body tenses as your spit-slick cock jabs into me, sending shockwaves of pain through me as you send every inch of yourself into my asshole, and immediately pump me hard, slapping your hips into me and causing the bed itself to shift along the floor and smack against the wall. I can't help but laugh, hoping that Mrs. Franklin is still out fiddling with her garage. You ram me, you ram me, you ram me. Slap slap slap as the pleasure of your urgency, of your unleashed abandon, of your hot hard cock inside me dissipates that initial sting. My cock fwaps back and forth with the force of you.

Your grunts come out like clockwork as I turn my head to look at you but your eyes are closed in concentration. I tell you to look. I want you to look, I want you to see yourself claiming me, to watch your cock slipping in and out of my asshole, how hot it looks, and when you do I ask you if you like it. You nod and keep those grunts coming. You ram me, you ram me, you ram me, my cock boinging, the bed squeaking, slap slap slap until you suddenly stop and pull out.

I turn to look but you're already pulling me up, turning me around to look at me, our cocks thwacking each other again. You're panting, your chest glistening with sweat, the edges of your hair starting to get wet from your exertion. You lay me back down on my back, spread my legs, and then run your hands down my chest, my abs, alongside my hard post, then along the insides of my thighs, sending a shiver of excitement through me, then you spread my legs wide and spit into your fingers, and wet my hole with them. I roll my head back as the feeling of your fingers prepping my hole makes me shiver. You spit again, rub your dick again, and I tell you to shove it in. I tell you to keep fucking me. I beg you to keep fucking me.

You drive it in again and continue to work at me, to pound at me, and the force of your fuck makes my cock smack back and forth and I love watching it, I love watching my body get used, a string of precum flicking off the tip from your thrusts, and I tell you to look at my cock. To watch my cock as you ram me, more, harder, fucking harder, fuck. Me. Make me come from your cock, make me come from you fucking me, to claim me as your hot little cock-hungry hole.

Your grunts are getting deeper, harsher. Your eyes are half-open, your mouth parted slightly, your face lost in concentration. I can start to feel the pressure building in me. You're so fucking hot, I tell you. You look so good. Your grip around my thighs as you piston into me is iron-clad. I've never been fucked with this kind of wildness, and I have to put a hand up against the wall behind me so I won't hit my head. "Comeon—UNH—comeon—UNH—oh yeahohyeah—UNH—baby come on," I coo under my breath, until there's a click in my system, my pressure suddenly at the boiling point and I tell you I'm gonna come. "Ohfuck—Ohfuck—I'm gonna—gasp—cooomme," and I throw my head back to concentrate on that sensation and I hold my breath as you slapslapslap and then I want to watch I want to see it so I look back down and I come, an exhalation of release, three long stripes of jizz jettisoning up towards my chin, one slapping up to my nipple, the other two nearly to my chest.

I laugh at the pleasure soaking every inch of my body, shivering, telling you how hot it all is, keep going keep fucking me keep going I want you to come baby and you are at a fever pitch ramming me ramming me and then your eyebrows lift, your mouth opens more, and I tell you to come inside me, do it, come inside me and those on-time grunts turn into a loud, unconscious exhalation as you thrust your cock to the hilt and lean towards it. I feel your body twitch as you explode inside me, as you twitch again and again to drain yourself, giving a few final slaps as you expel every last bit of your cum inside me. Your chest swells and deflates in great gulps of air.

You pull out. I get up, your cum dripping down my leg. My aim is to hold you. To grab you and pull your body close to me. To lick you clean in thanks.

But you smile. And leave.

"He paid for the week, but his room is cleared out," Mrs. Franklin says, later at the fire. She was, indeed, still out organizing her garage (where she found the bikes) while you and I had our salacious tryst. "Maybe he'll be back."

"I hope so," I say, but I know better.