I decided to spend a few weeks at home before going to Paris. When I got there, I realized that the time away had not been kind to the old man. He was frail and looked sickly. I knew I wasnât going to go to Paris and leave him. Before my twenty-first birthday he passed away. I sat inside my house by the sea and grieved, but not forever. All of my grandfatherâs friends came by on Wednesday as usual and had me sit with them and tell stories and then listen to theirs. It helped, and somehow they have always understood how shy and quiet I am. Shortly after, I found out that the house and everything in it was left to me as well as a trust fund from my parents. I realized I didnât want to go to Paris and decided to turn my home into a bed and breakfast so I could cook for others and still stay at home.
I spent weeks going over all that I would need to convert the house. I looked at furniture and fixtures, talked with contractors, and even an architect. When all was said and done, I hired a contractor from out of state to oversee the project. Since where I live is fairly secluded along the Oregon coast, within sight of the majestic haystack rocks near Cannon Beach, I let the man stay with me. His crew was made up of local craftsmen, but he wasnât local, so needed a place to stay. Over the next couple of weeks, I started to decorate as soon as each new room was completed. I decided to use large, sturdy, comfortable furnishings and bright, warm colors. I wanted people who came to my home to be comfortable and relaxed. The contractor, whose name was Robert, and I became friends. He was a tall man, but a little shorter than my towering height. He was big and strong and often worked without his shirt. I found myself becoming tongue-tied around him. I blushed a lot and stammered when he talked to me. In truth, I was attracted, extremely attracted to him. He would smile at me and wink. It made me feel even more flustered and shy around him. About two weeks into his stay, he came to my room one night.
He told me that he had seen me watching him and wanted to see how far things could go. With that he was kissing me. I was shocked, it was my first kiss, first everything. He took off my shirt and sifted his fingers through the hair on my chest. Then he took off his shirt and pressed me to him, pulling me, melding with me. His chest was covered in coarse, dark hair, such a sensual contrast to my soft, downy fur. He was fast and a little rough. He pulled and pawed at our clothes until we were both naked, standing by my big bed. He pushed me down and pulled my face to his lap, feeding me his hard shaft. He wasnât all that long or thick, but it was my first time and I gagged a bit. But soon I became accustomed to his invasion. He held my face and started pounding his hips into me. His cock wasnât long enough to go beyond my tonsils and my nose kept being bumped into his pubic bush. He pulled away and tried to catch his breath, telling me he didnât want to cum so soon.
Robert took my face in his hands and started kissing me again. He pushed me back on the bed, forcing his hips between mine, pressing forward and begging for entry into my body. But when he pushed forward, he realized quickly that this was brand new to me. He immediately slowed and gentled. His forceful, pushing manner eased and he became sweet and loving. I realized that I had probably given him signals that led him to believe I was more experienced. The change in his attack was so different. Where before he was forceful, now he was gentle and coaxing. He started kissing me again, but slowly, teasingly with his tongue, begging me to play with him. Where his hands had pawed at me, now they stroked, stoking my pleasure, petting and relaxing me. I felt my nervousness leave and I started to return Robertâs ministrations. I tasted and delved my hands over his body, skimming against his back, reveling in the contented purr he let out. He continued to stroke my body, but his hands moved lower, skimming over my ass, bunching and kneading the muscular globes. He began stroking my hole with his fingers, brushing against the bundle of ultra-sensitive nerves. Then he was inside me, buried to the knuckle of his middle finger. He searched and prodded inside me, looking for admittance, for acceptance. I opened for him and he pressed his advantage. In seconds he was buried inside. He waited; he coaxed and crooned, telling me with gentle words to relax. He continued to pet me, stroke my body, willing me to relax. I did and he began to move. He rocked into me quickly and in mere moments was clenching and spurting, making noises like a braying mule. When he collapsed against me, all I could think was: this is it?
Then Robert rose for round two. This time I understood what it was all about. He stroked and built me, having taken the edge off of his own needs; he spent the time and energy finessing a response from me. When it was over, he was marveling at me, telling me how responsive I was and how good I was. It made me feel special. Our routine continued for the next few weeks while the last of the work on my house was being done. What we did in bed was mostly the same: kissing, my sucking him and him fucking me. The night before he was to leave, he came to me and was different. He was kissing me, but he let me lead. He didnât take control. After a bit of rolling around, kissing and petting, he pulled me on top of him and wrapped his legs around my back. Robert looked at me and said âpleaseâ before I sank into him. I felt him close around me, feeling him stretch around me. I pumped and thrust into him, amazed at the turn of events. I felt him build because he kept squeezing me, crying out and pawing his fingers into my shoulders. Then I felt him release, jetting against my belly. I kept thrusting into him, keeping from orgasm by the slightest margin. Shortly after, he came again and this time I couldnât help but follow. My breathing slowed, and I slipped out of Robert while he cuddled to me.
I knew he was leaving tomorrow. I was okay with it. I was attracted to him and I will never forget the time we shared together, but it was only sex. If he were to stay, it probably could develop into more. But he was leaving. I was lying with him, watching the colors of the sunset change through the curtains of my bedroom window when I fell asleep. The next morning, he was gone.
The next few years were lonely ones. I was crippled behind walls of intense shyness. It wasnât too bad during the long summers. My house was full of guests. But the winters were long and lonely, with nary a guest for up to three months. Those were the times when I felt it the most, an almost bone-crushing sense of loss and loneliness. I had turned twenty-five the previous summer. I was gearing up for the lonely period after Christmas when my only real contact would be the Wednesday meetings with my grandfatherâs friends. I received a call from a secretary for a literary agent. She asked to book a room in my little bed and breakfast for an indefinite time, starting the second week in January. A writer wanted to stay in my house to write and do research of the surrounding area. When I asked for the authorâs name, I almost fell through the floor. It was one of my favorites: Toby Hunter. He writes mostly murder mysteries with a big dash of the supernatural thrown in. I was so excited. I had read all of his books. I couldnât wait for the next few weeks to go by.
He showed up on the 10th of January during a huge wind and rainstorm. It was dark and close to 11PM. I wasnât expecting him until the following morning. I answered the door and helped him grab his things from the car. We were both soaked. He stood in my front entrance while I went to get some towels. When I came back I skidded to a stop. He had stripped down to his boxers. He took one of the towels from my now dead fingers and started to dry himself off. It wasnât supposed to be erotic, but my body didnât care. He was a few inches shorter than me, but I would say we weighed the same. His shorter frame carried his weight in his chest and shoulders, perfectly sculpted and bulging with raw sinew. His dark hair was short and tamed against the wild curl evident. His eyes were a piercing blue. His nose straight and perfectly complimented the rest of his features. His lips were full and sensuous. His chin, hard and strong, was covered in dark stubble. Then I looked down to his chest. Some people donât like hairy chests. I find them extremely sexy. His pectorals were covered in long, straight, thick dark hair, to the point where you couldnât see the skin underneath. The hair was in interesting whorls all along the muscular plane. The hair trailed thickly between his abdominal muscles and hid his belly button. You would only know it was there because of the swirl of hair that deepened at that point. His legs were also incredibly muscled and covered in dark whorls of the same straight, thick hair. In a word: gorgeous.
