Black and White

Every time [Deleted] came over, I ended up with rug burns on my knees. That's what you get when doing it on carpeted stairs. My staircase.

Deleted liked doing it there. For one thing, it was handy--just off the kitchen. For another, it saved time, and Deleted was always in a hurry. Wham, bam, thank you...

Except there were never any thank-yous. "I got, like, thirty minutes," he might say. Including drive time?

The first time he came over the lubricant was in a kitchen drawer. Which seemed to astonish him. "You some kind of slut?" he wondered.

"No." I didn't call him Sir. He was domineering but not a true Dom. I'd had them as well.

He made an expression of seeming disgust. He never asked, however, if I was healthy and he never insisted on wearing a condom, a foil strip of which was also in the drawer. I preferred his bare cock in me. I preferred receiving his load of sperm.

"You get fucked by a lot of guys?" he next asked.

"No. You're the first in a while."

And he hadn't even come over for a fuck. Ostensibly he was here for a blowjob. Maybe seeing me dressed in women's underwear turned him on. Panties, stockings and make up, though no wig. I honestly don't know.

Now, however, that his coming over had become an almost weekly thing, I put the K-Y jelly out on the raised kitchen counter, in front of the line of high stools. This would speed things up for him.

He never, upon arriving, in a blur, fondled my balls in my panty or caressed my silky ass in it. Zero signs of affection. He simply said, as he hurriedly undressed, "Take 'em off. Get in position [on the stairs."

Actually, no joke, fucking on a staircase makes lots of sense. You position yourself, ass in the air, balls hanging down, and he stands behind you on the hard tiles and puts it in you and fucks you. And, depending on your partner's height (Deleted is not tall; not tall but not short either), you, the bottom, can adjust your position accordingly. Up a step, down a step, with your arms folded two steps above you (I sometimes get elbow burns as well).

It works out very well, and I wear my knee burns as a kind of measure of pride. I got fucked last night, I tell my imaginary gay and bi friends, and you didn't. See my knees? I'm lucky.

I have an email correspondent, someone local though I don't know quite where, who has a fabulous pair of tits. They'd require, at the very least, a B-cup bra and they turn out slightly. I'd love to get down on my knees and suck them sometime. He remains elusive, however.

He's a fellow bottom of course and I email him after every sexual encounter with Deleted. He's jealous, I can tell. I don't email him to arouse his jealousy, however. I simply write him to inform him about our latest get-together. It's an ego thing on my part, I guess. Something to relate.

"[Deleted] came over tonight," I'll say. "The usual. Fucked me on the stairs. I asked him to take of pic of me with his phone with his cock up my ass but he said he was in a hurry. Maybe next time. I'll try to hold him to that."

And he'll email me back saying something repetitive like, "You're so lucky."

"Maybe he could fuck us both sometime," I once offered.

"If I came over?"

"Yeah."

"I'd need some advance notice. And your address."

"I can send you my address right now," I inform him. "But there's usually not much [from him] advance notice. I get an email, usually on a Wed or Thurs [sic] saying I'll be there at eight or whatever."

"Your [sic] a long way away I think. Probably wouldn't work."

Faker! He's always got some excuse. I've asked him multiple times if I can come over someday and suck his tits and maybe rub my cock against them and cum on them but he's never given me his address. I think he lives in the north part of the next county over, maybe near the Gulf. True, it's a long drive.

The second time Deleted fucked me, in the middle of it actually, he asked if I was healthy. He actually stopped his motion in me.

"I am," I told him.

"Cause I'm married," he again informed me, while resuming his motion.

"No, I know," I assured him.

This is somewhat perverse but I like the fact that I'm helping him cheat on his wife. I like being the gay lover in all this. Sometimes I wonder if his wife will show up some night, pull into my driveway, and angrily confront me. She'll be astonished.

"You're a guy?"

This will compound things for him, I admit. A guy with a wife and kids at home cheating on them with another guy? He doesn't seem like the type who'd admit to being gay or bi, and tell his wife maybe they should divorce and he should go his own way. Joint custody, of course.

"I can't help it. I'm..."

No, he seems like the type who would never confess to anything.

"I don't know who you are," I'd tell his wife. She's not attractive--but neither is he. Wavy dark hair (him) flecked grey. Clean-shaven, though with a "five o'clock" shadow. Decent-sized cock, though nothing special. I've had bigger, let me put it that way.

Sometimes he pauses, in the middle of his ejaculations, and I can feel him pulsing in me. Once, maybe twice. And only at the end, after he's done, does he utter a muted "Oh!" or, actually, "Uh!" A mere grunt.

Our first time on the stairs, I was moaning with each of his thrusts and he told me, in his domineering fashion, to shut up. And I did. He spanked my right buttock, something I like, for emphasis.

I urged him to spank me again.

He said, "Shut up." And I did.

It's hard holding in one's pleasure. It dumbs down (if that's the word) the whole experience a bit. I'd much rather moan and then cry out as he orgasms in me. I want to be his woman tonight; I want to be his vessel of pleasure (and, can I say it? Love?).

But nothing, no emotion he's ever exhibited, suggests any of this. He has a need; I'm available, though not (for him anyway) ideal but I'll do. Let's put it this way: I'll willingly bend over for him. Every time he wants it.

I follow him to the door. "Let me know when you can come back," I say hopefully. Will this be the last time? Will his wife find out, or suspect something?

"You're a guy?" Her mouth hanging open outside my front door.

"I don't know who you are," I tell her.

"I'm the wife of the guy you're..."

"I'm... what?"

Turns her head. "I don't know..."

"Who's your husband?"

Looks back. "You know who he is!"

Perhaps I'm wearing eye shadow tonight--green like my eyes--perhaps not. I've pulled on slacks over my panties. Feet bare, or in sheer stockings. Toenails painted red.

"I don't," I claim. I try not to sound too effeminate.

"You do. I followed him here."

"Tonight? No one's--"

"Not tonight. Last night! I should've..."

"I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am."

"[Deleted] came over tonight," I tell my email correspondent. "I think the best fuck yet. Not great stamina but OK. Tonight a little longer. Better. Came in me, of course."

"Happy for you," he replies. Tersely.

I so want to feel and suck his breasts. I've thought about asking him to meet me at the gay beach, probably much nearer to him than to me. I haven't seen a pic of his entire body but I'm guessing he's on the plump side. It would be great if he could come over and kneel on my staircase next to me and offer his fat ass along with my slender one to my--our--lover.

I'd be fine if he came in him rather than me that night. The poor sexless guy deserves it.

"You've come to the wrong house," I tell the wife.

"It's not the wrong house. I saw him pull into your driveway and park here.

"I didn't," she goes on to admit, "but someone I know did. She saw him here."

"Who did?"

"She did."

"Who's she?"

"She took photographs," the wife goes on to claim.

"At night?"

"It was your house. She gave me the address."

"It's a she?"

"What goes on here between you and my husband? Is he--" and here she breaks down, sobs. "Gay?" she asks, looking up tearfully.

"Ma'am," I tell her, with all the false sincerity I can muster, "I don't know what this is about. I don't know your husband, I assure you."

A cat, one of my outdoor cats, black and white, comes from behind my visitor and rubs its back against my right calf. Funny how the name of the lower leg in English is the same as that of a juvenile bovine. I don't eat veal. "Oh, kitty," she declares while dabbing her eyes with a wadded tissue. She leaves.

"Take care," I tell her as she walks away. I feel for her a bit, I really do.

I fantasize, further, about telling her--Him--about all this.

"Your wife's onto you," I say, as he quickly undresses. He pauses, pants down.

"What do you mean?"

"She was here a few night ago. She's hired someone--a spy or private detective. A woman."

"What woman? Her sister?"

I have no idea. "No idea," I tell him (in my fantasy).

"What did she say?"

"Your sister-in-law?"

"No!" pants falling. "My wife."

"She wondered what was going on."

"What'd you tell her?"

"Nothing. I told her she had the wrong house."

"Take your panty off you sissy fuck," he might say. "Get on the stairs. I got a hard-on for you t'night."

"Let me suck it first," I offer.

"No. I'm in a hurry." He points: "Get on the stairs."

He lubes up his cock and puts it in me. All the way in. I'm used to it by now. He enters me easily. I suppress a moan. He begins his fucking motion. Oh!

Someone knocks at the door.