Grass Clippings

Grass Clippings

You show up in old jeans and a faded shirt because Rich asked if you could help with the yard, and you said yes like a good neighbor. Saturday. Hot. The kind of heat that sits on the street and makes the cut grass smell sharp, green and a little sweet, and makes your shirt stick to your back before you even pick up a bag.

His house is the one with the trimmed hedges and the wife's car usually in the drive. The car is gone. The mower is out, and so is he.

Rich is already halfway through the lawn when you get there. He has been your straight neighbor, and he's never given you a reason to believe otherwise. Always with an easy smile. Broad shoulders. Brown full head of hair. Sweat darkening the collar of his shirt and a darker patch down the middle of his chest. Late thirties, maybe, the kind of fit that comes from work and not a gym mirror. He looks like the guy on the hardware store flyer, if the flyer also made your stomach go wild.

"Thanks for coming," he says. "Mower's being a dick. Grab those bags?"

You work. You haul clippings. You edge the walk while he finishes the back. You try not to watch the way his forearms flex when he dumps a bag into the bin. You fail at that part. Every time he bends, the back of his shirt rides up and you get a strip of tan lower back, the waistband of his jeans, a glimpse of the sweat line disappearing under the denim. He catches you once, early, and just nods like you were looking at the edger.

"Bags are in the garage if you need more," Rich says. "Don't kill yourself. It's just grass."

You keep your eyes on the lawn and your head does not cooperate. The sun climbs. Your neck burns. He peels his gloves off with his teeth at one point and you have to look at a fence post until the feeling passes. When he walks by, close, you get soap under the grass smell, and heat, and you hate how fast your body files that away.

After an hour he tips his chin toward the garage.

"Water. Come on. I'm dying."

The garage is cooler and dim. Concrete floor. Oil stain by the workbench. A mini fridge humming in the corner, beer magnets on the side, a dented toolbox, rakes on the wall. The street is still bright in the open door. Rich pulls two bottles, tosses you one, drinks half of his in one go, then leans back against the bench. His throat works. His shirt is rucked up a little. A line of damp hair runs down from his navel into his jeans. He catches you looking.

"You've been staring since you got here."

Your face goes hot. "I wasn't..."

"Yeah you were." Calm. Not mean. Almost curious. He sets the bottle down and thumbs his waistband, not opening anything yet. A car goes by on the street and neithr of you looks at it. "Wife's at her sister's till tomorrow. I've been thinking about a mouth all morning. You offering one, bud, or am I reading this wrong?"

The yard is still out there. The street is still out there. The mower sits in the open doorway like it is watching.

You should say he is reading it wrong.

You say, "You're not."

Rich's mouth quirks. "Then hit that garage door button."

You hit the button. The door rumbles down and cuts the daylight to a strip along the floor. The garage gets smaller. Quieter. You can hear the fridge and your own pulse. He pops his button. Unzips. Reaches in and lifts himself out like he has already done this in his head.

His cock is beautiful. That is the only word that fits. Thick, cut, heavy, the head flushed dark and already wet at the slit. Veins standing from the heat and the work. It looks expensive and stupidly perfect against his tan stomach and the open fly of his dirty jeans. The shaft is rock hard at the base, a solid bar of him, no give when you are going to wrap your hand around it, and still smooth, skin slick with sweat and the first shine of precum. Heavy enough that it bobs when he lets it go. The smell comes up off the base the second the air hits it. Heat. Soap. Cut grass. Clippings stuck to his boot.

"Jesus," you say, which is not smooth.

Rich huffs a laugh. "Yeah. Come here."

You go to your knees on the concrete. Oil stain under one palm. Grass on his boot. The floor is cool through your jeans. He threads a hand into your hair, not yanking, just holding you there while he taps that pretty head against your lower lip. A wet spot kisses your mouth.

"Open. No teeth. Don't get weird about it after."

You open. He feeds you the head first. Salt and skin and clean sweat. You make an embarrassing sound around it and he breathes out like he felt that in his spine. You can't believe you're really doing this to him.

"There you go. Good."

You sink down. He is thicker than he looked in his hand. Your jaw stretches. Spit gathers fast. You pull back to lick, because you already wanted to the second you saw it. You tongue the slit and taste him, salty, thin, endless. You kiss down the shaft. At the base you mouth him where he is hardest, that solid root, smooth and slick under your lips, and the smell is right there. Heat, soap, cut grass. You breathe it in on purpose. You look up while you do it.

Rich's head is tipped back against a cabinet. Mouth open. The easy neighbor face is gone. His hand stays in your hair, thumb rubbing once, like he is checking that you are real.

"Fuck. You really like it."

You nod with him still on your tongue. You go back to work like the lawn can wait forever. Long wet slides. A hand around what you cannot fit, and your fist can feel it, rock hard at the base, no softness anywhere, slick enough that your hand glides. You drool on him and use it. You suck the head and let it pop free just to look at it, shiny now, darker, a string of spit connecting your lip to that perfect slit.

"Don't stop staring at it," he mutters. "You look filthy."

You tell him it is beautiful. Your voice comes out wrecked and honest. He twitches in your fist.

"Yeah? Then earn it. Take it deeper."

You do. Rich starts to rock, using your mouth in slow rolls, the wet sound loud in the closed garage. His balls are drawn tight when you cup them, heavy, hot, the same grass-and-soap smell stronger there. You lick them. You take one into your mouth, careful, then the other, then back up the underside, then down to the base again so you can smell the lawn while you suck. You swallow him until your eyes water and your nose is almost in that damp hair.

He groans. "Easy. Fuck. Just like that. Stay on it."

You stay. Your jaw aches. You do not care. Every time you pull back for air you look at him, Rich with his jeans open and his shirt stuck to his chest, the straight neighbor who asked you over to bag clippings. He looks down and watches you put your mouth on him again, and his stomach tightens.

"Gonna come," he says after a while, low, surprised by how fast. "You want it in your mouth?"

"Yes. Please."

"Christ." His hand tightens. "Stay on it. It's all coming your way.... fuck."

He comes hard. The first pulse hits your tongue thick and hot. You keep him in your mouth and take the rest, swallowing some, holding some, letting the last spurts flood over your tongue so you can taste him properly. Rich groans like he got struck in the gut. His cock kicks against your palate, the base still rigid in your fist while he pumps. You stay there and drink it. A little escapes at the corner of your mouth. You do not wipe it yet. It rolls down over the thick vein on his shaft.

When the pulses fade you do not pull off clean. You suck gently through the aftershocks until he hisses and his thigh jumps. Then you let him slip free and do what you came in here to do in your head the whole time you were bagging his grass.

You worship it.

You lick the head clean. You chase a stripe that leaked down the shaft. You kiss the wet crown like it did you a favor. You hold him in two hands, still heavy, still warm, the base finally starting to soften and somehow filthier for it, and you mouth at the length. Salt. His load. Heat. Soap. Cut grass. A last bead wells at the slit. You take that too, slow, and show him your tongue after.

Rich stares down at you, chest working, jeans still open, one hand braced on the bench like his knees are not entirely with him.

"You are not just helping with the yard, here, man," he says.

You kiss the head once more. "You talked me into it."

He laughs once, wrecked. His thumb smears the mess at the corner of your mouth and pushes it back between your lips. You suck his thumb without being asked. He watches that too.

Outside, a car goes by. The door stays down. Inside, his cock is still glistening in your hands, beautiful and used, the base smelling like the lawn you just finished for him.

Rich glances at the dead mower, then back at your mouth.

"Grass can wait," he says. "Do that again. Slower."