Shooting Matt

Randy moves ahead with plans to upend his life. Kent joins him and more mysterious happenings ensue. And some sex, sex ensues as well. I mean it is supposed to be an erotic story.

Thanks, as always to LarryInSeattle.

I hope you enjoy.

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If Kent's idea had been for me to get a good night's sleep and then send me on my way home in the morning fully rested, that idea went badly astray. He had collapsed beside me and I had managed to get my legs down. I'd been covered in cum. He'd leaned over me, propped up on one elbow. Our bodies, slick with sweat and cum, had slid over each other as we kissed. We dozed a little after that.

I'm not sure how long we slept but Kent's mouth on my cock was what woke me sometime during the night. We spent the rest of the night fondling each other, talking, sucking each other, talking, playing with each other's nipples, talking. Eventually, we slept but it couldn't have been for very long. I'd woken to Kent cursing. He'd overslept. He offered to let me stay but I declined. We showered quickly, each of us staying at our end of the shower. We barely had enough time for a quick tug and kiss before I found myself hurrying after him down the hallway.

I don't recall much of the drive home, not because I'd been too sleepy but because I'd been so excited. I had so many ideas pinballing off each other inside my skull. I took the time to walk to the curb and collect the papers that had lain yellowing in the sun under sweaty plastic. They went straight into the garbage can. The mail, I tossed onto the kitchen counter. Then, I shucked off my clothes and collapsed, naked, atop the mattress that still took up most of the floor space in my kitchen.

That had been four days ago now. In the interim, I've managed to finish the floors. I've also repainted the kitchen cabinets and installed new appliances. Truth be told, my kitchen is old school, just big enough to get the job done and the job is cooking for a family not making a gourmet meal for a bunch of craft beer ass wipes. The place is coming together. I need to paint, inside and out. The roof is only four years old -- thank you hail storm and insurance. The yard, I'm simply going to sod and leave the rest to whoever buys the place.

I'd decided that no matter what Glenna decides, I'm selling the place. After that, beats me. If Glenna and Leon take me up on my offer, great. If not, I have marketable skills. I live cheap. I've heard of people who make their money for the year working the holiday season at any of several big warehouses, be they brick and mortar or e-commerce. I can do that in my sleep. I can work a grill. I can do yard work. In short, I expect to be free as a fucking bird.

I refuse to let myself imagine doing any of this in, or around, Pittsburgh, however. That seems like pushing it a bit. Kent has called twice. He'll finish his four-day week today and be up tonight. I'm excited and happy but the idea of moving down to Pittsburgh sounds too much like moving in together. That's ridiculous but it's the way I feel. I don't think he's ready for that.

I've heard from Liam. And by 'heard' I mean I've heard his voice and been told everything is fine and that's about it. Glenna, after talking with me, has hired him and Matt for the summer. I have no idea what's she's gonna pay them. Liam will cover the gift shop, grill, and dock. Matt will help with maintenance and other odd jobs. What he'll really be doing is swimming, with Liam and Leon's help, and rehabilitating his back. It appears Leon was worked out a way of helping Matt with the cost of school, short of simply handing him some cash.

I drain my coffee cup, stand up, stretch, and head outside. I've got a lot to do before Kent gets here. The sod I ordered is coming tomorrow and I need to get the yard ready.

I take a break at noon. Sweat turns the dust and dirt on my body into rivulets of mud. My hands are numb and my shoulders ache. The tiller I've rented is big and heavy but I still need to help it dig into the weeds and patches of grass. It vibrates so much I'm sure I've lost a couple of fillings. I've got the back yard done, though. The front is smaller.

It's smaller but I'm also tired and hot. It's almost four o'clock before I turn the kill switch on that fucking beast of a tiller. I can tell, despite the leather gloves, that I have a crop of new blisters to deal with.

I'm standing at the side of the carport, letting the hose run cold water over my head when I hear the soft bleat of a car horn, the sort of quick beep that tells you, politely, to wake the fuck up and go because the light has turned green. That's all well and good but I'm not spacing off behind the wheel. I'm standing with cold water running over my head.

I look up and Kent is standing there. He'd pulled into the drive without me hearing, not that I'm growing deaf in my dotage mind you, I had my head under the hose and my ears are still ringing from the sound of the tiller. Yes, mom, I wore ear protection but my ears are still ringing. He's standing beside the car, hand through the open driver's side window.

I feel my face break into a grin. What the fuck is he doing here this early? I 'shut off' the water by kinking the hose in my fist.

"What are you doing here? I thought you weren't coming until after supper?"

"They were over-staffed. It was quiet. They asked if anyone wanted to leave early. Here I am." His smile widens. "Do you have any idea how fucking hot you look? Shirtless, sweaty, water running off your hair and getting your faded jeans wet, and in work boots. What the fuck, Randy. You posing for online porn or something?"

I look down at myself. I feel hot but heat stroke hot, not sexy hot. I look up. I must look totally confused because Kent laughs.

He crosses the short distance between us, puts a hand on my arm and kisses me. I don't care if the neighbors are watching. I kiss him back. In my excitement, my grip on the hose loosens. Most of the spray goes on me but Kent gets a smattering.

He steps back laughing. I'm awe-struck at how glad I am to see him.

"What can I do to help?" He asks. "Unless you want to go inside and fuck," he snickers.

I smile. "That's it for the day. Sod comes tomorrow. So, yeah let's go inside and fuck."

"Let me grab my stuff. Is my car okay here?"

I nod. He flashes me a thumbs up and pops the trunk. He only has a small bag. He closes the trunk with his free hand and crosses back to stand beside me.

"I've missed you," he tells me, seemingly surprised at the admission.

"Yeah, me too." I hold the side door to the kitchen open. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to finish hosing off the worst of the dust."

He leans inside the kitchen and drops his bag on the floor but doesn't go inside.

"Let me help."

I can't think of a reason to say no. I move to stand in front of my truck, blocking the neighbors' view. I tug off my boots and set them atop the hood. I peel off my gross socks and lay them on the hood as well. My jeans follow. Kent's eyes have made me hard.

I spread my arms. He picks up the hose. The water is cold but it can't quench my boner or my joy.

I had thrown an old thread-bare beach towel over the clothesline earlier, for just this purpose. Kent drops the hose and follows it around the corner of the house. I hear the spigot wail in protest as he turns the water off. I pat my body dry, then toss the towel over my head and dry my hair. I do so with great vigor and in great hope that doing so will make by cock dance for him.

It seems to have worked since he jerks the towel away and pulls me close. His hand finds my cock as his tongue pushes past my lips. I enjoy the feel of him for a moment and then pull away.

"I don't care too much what my neighbors think but I don't want the cops out here though," I tell him. "Let's go inside."

***

We barely make it inside before Kent is on his knees, grabbing for my cock.

"I wanna taste your cum. I haven't tasted your cum," he pants.

"Sure, you have. It was in my mouth but you tasted it."

"Not the same," he insists. He doesn't say anything more because my cock is buried in his throat.

I've always been secretly proud of my ability to suck dick but Kent makes me feel like an amateur. He deep throats me, seemingly without effort.

"Let me take a shower first," I protest. "I must stink, dude. I've been working outside all day."

He answers me by holding my entire cock in his throat and shaking his head 'no', tickling my pubic hair with his nose. He moves his mouth up and down my cock, making my cock slick with his spit. He adds his hands. I use my hands blowing a guy, too, but not with the finesse Kent is displaying. He moves his hands in opposite directions, more of a twisting motion than a stroking one. His hands follow his mouth up and down my cock.

His tongue swirls around the crown, then flicks over the 'V' and over my slit. He milks my precum and uses it to make his hand slick. The more I ooze, the slicker is my cock and the faster his hands move.

I grip the sides of his head, urging him to slow down but it's no use. If anything, he kicks the tempo up a notch. My fingers pull at his hair as I cum.

His lips seal around my cock as I unload stream after stream of jizz. I purposely haven't jerked off for the past four days. Not that I hadn't played with my cock. I had. I stopped before I came. I knew from experience that trick would ensure a massive load, for those times when you felt the need to impress.

He doesn't miss a fucking drop. I'm the one who's impressed. I'm trying to catch my breath when he stands. I reach out for him, thinking he wants to snoball but he shakes his head. He jerks his jeans open and shoves them half-way down his thighs. His dick looks as glorious as I remember. He holds his hand to his mouth and lets some of my jizz leak out on his hand. He spreads the jizz over his cock. He moves his head in a quick half circle. I'm confused for a moment. He repeats the gesture, raising his eyebrows and adding a little shoulder English to the movement. I understand and turn around.

A hand on my lower back pushes me forward. I rest my hand on the counter top. I'm expecting the head of his cock to touch my ass but it's his mouth. I start to protest. I know my ass crack must be a sweaty mess after working outside all day. The hand on my back urges me to lean farther forward. I feel his tongue and then warm liquid flows over my asshole and starts to run down my legs and ball sack. His hand reaches between my legs and wipes them off my nut sack as well. The mouth leaves my ass.

His cock presses against my asshole, barely slowing as it penetrates me. He's using my own cum as lube. Fuck.

It's like we're back in his shower. The same deep thrusts. The same teasing cockhead popping in and out of my sphincter. But this time, I'm more involved. I clench at his dick with my ass, slowing him down, trapping him. I reach behind and hold him deep inside while I move my ass in circles, not letting him escape. I'm rewarded by the feel of him growing every more frantic. I let my head fall between my outstretched arms and watch the silvery thread of cum hanging from my cock, as it sways.

I brace myself with my arms and push back with my hips.

"Fuck me, Kent. Plow my ass," I beg.

He begins to slam his body into mine, grunting. Each impact drives a fevered 'uh-huh' past my lips.

His hands clutch at my hips, hips that still bear the finger-shaped bruises from four days ago. He slams into me so hard that my hand slips. I fly forward and my head connects with the cabinet. I see stars.

Behind me, Kent is pressed tight to my ass, jiggling. "Goddamn, fuck, fuck, Jesus," are the only coherent words I can make out.

He collapses against my back and I collapse onto the counter, careful to miss the cabinet this time. We lie there panting, catching our breath. I start to giggle, which starts him giggling. He starts to move but I reach back and press him back against me. We stay there until his dick slips from my ass, a lovely sensation. I feel warmth running down my legs. Well, all things must pass, as poor dearly departed George said. I don't want to make too big of a mess. I raise up, trying to reach for the paper towels.

Kent understands and straightens. He shuffles to my side, legs still trapped inside his jeans, jerks off a paper towel and wipes at his dick. He tears off several more and turns back to me. He starts to hand me a paper towel but freezes.

"Jesus, Randy you're bleeding. What the fuck?"

I look down, expecting to see blood on the floor. I'm not that worried about it. It was a righteously hard fucking he gave me. My ass is sore but that vague, achy, well fuck sort of sore that is more pleasant than painful. There is a small puddle of cum on the floor but no blood.

A drop of blood hits the top of my foot.

I'm confused until his hand urges my head back.

"Your head is bleeding," he whispers. "What the fuck did I do to you?"

He sounds like he's about to cry. I reach up and touch my forehead and cheek. They're both sticky.

"You didn't do anything to me I didn't want and love, so stop with that shit already," I tell him. I take one of the paper towels from his hand and wipe the inside of my legs and ass crack. I step over the jizz on the floor and toss the paper towel into the trash. Kent is still standing there, looking like he's the one that got whacked in the head. I take the other towel out of his hand and stoop to wipe up the floor. He seems to recover a bit when I turn back from the trash can. His fingers wrap around my upper arm and he pulls me toward the sink. The gesture is solicitous but the fact that his pants are still around his ankles and his limp dick is trailing jizz destroys the effect. I start to laugh.

He stares at me. I point.

"Pull up your pants, or better still just take them off," I chuckle.

He grins uneasily, eyes still full of concern.

He steps out of his jeans and kicks them with one foot to the side. He turns on the cold water and pulls off another paper towel and begins to dab at the edge of my hairline.

"What happened?" he whispers.

"Nothing, Kent. My hand slipped and I whacked my head against the cabinet. It's fine. I box for Christ's sakes. That wasn't even hard enough hit to ring any chimes." That's not quite true, I had seen stars but he doesn't need to know that. "I've probably cut myself worse shaving."

"It doesn't look too bad, a gouge more than a laceration. You must have hit the corner."

"Probably," I agree. "Let me go get cleaned up."

I start to move away from the sink but he stops me.

"Stay where you are," he orders in his best I-am-your-nurse-do-not-dare-defy-me voice. "Where are your washcloths? Hold this?"

He holds the folded paper towel against my forehead and presses. I do as he asks.

"Down the hall in the bathroom closet," I tell him.

"Huh?"

"Washcloths, down the hall..."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Shit."

He's back quickly holding a washcloth, a dark-colored washcloth, I note with relief. I don't need blood stains on my washcloths thank you very much. He wets a corner under the tap and begins to wipe at my forward. He stops frequently to rinse out the washcloth as he cleans off my forehead. He frowns at the blood clotted in my eyebrow, until he's sure it's not hiding another cut.

"Close your eyes," he instructs and I feel him gently wash the blood off my eyelid.

I press the paper towel to my forehead, luxuriating in the sensation of being taken care of.

"I don't know what the fuck you do to me," he whispers as he starts to wash off my cheek. I hear the worry and the guilt in his voice.

"I don't know either but I'm glad I do," I tell him in total honesty. "I loved that, not being a fucking klutz and whacking my head, but getting fucked like that. Beautiful, straightforward, no doubt about it fucking. I want you to make love to me, some day, someday soon in fact, but for now what I was craving was exactly what you gave me. A fucking. A pound-my-ass-open-leave-me-waddling-for-a-week fucking. This," I gesture toward my forehead, "is not your fault, not your dick's fault and certainly not that glorious ass fucking's fault. It was an accident."

He shakes his head as he rinses out the washcloth again. "I don't know. I'm not used to being that out of control." He shrugs. "Hell, I don't usually even top."

"No shit? That's great because I don't usually bottom. See how we're already opening up new horizons?" That's not strictly true. I'm versatile.

"Let me see," he tells me, reaching for the paper towel. "You took my dick like a bottom," he adds as he begins to ease the paper towel away from the cut.

"I didn't say I never bottom," I insist.

"Bleeding has mostly stopped," he replies. "Hold that against your head but you don't have to press so hard. You have any telfa pads?"

"Follow me."

I make my way to the bathroom, enjoying the ache in my ass, and open the medicine cabinet for him.

"Perfect," he gushes.

I shake my head. Only a nurse could get excited by a well ordered, well stocked, medicine cabinet.

He soaks a cotton ball in hydrogen peroxide and begins to dab at the cut. It stings, only a little, but I give him a sharp hiss of outrage, just to make him feel like he's doing his job. He reaches for the tape but I stop him.

"I hold a piece of telfa against it until it stops. I don't want tape in my hair."

"I could clip your hair back a little?"

"Naw, it'll be fine. I'm going to hop in the shower. As you can see," I nod at the bathtub, shower and shower curtain (I bought a new one as soon as he confirmed he was still coming to Cleveland), "there's only room for one."

"No shower, you'll get the cut wet."

Before I can protest, he steps past me and turns on the faucet in the tub. He picks up the rubber drain stopper and looks at it. "I don't know why but I love these things. Simple, reliable, perfect for the job." He shrugs and after checking the water temperature plugs the drain. He looks over his shoulder at me. "In you go. Orders."

"Yes, nurse," I sigh.

I assumed he meant for me to bath myself. Nope. He hunkered down beside the tub, soaped up a washcloth and went to work. It was amazing. Better than amazing was the way he washed my hair. I don't think he got a drop of water in the cut but he insists on cleaning it off with peroxide again.

"You want to shower? I'll wash your back." He looks at me. I raise three fingers in a Boy Scout salute. "I promise not to let any water splash on to my boo boo," I add in a child-like voice.

"Bad boys often need spanking," he growls.

"Really? Fuck. Sign me up." He shakes his head at me. "You know what, never mind," I tell him. You didn't have a dick up your ass. Hand me a washcloth out of the closet."

He tosses me one. I wet it with warm water, soap it and wash his cock and balls. I rinse out the cloth and rinse the soap off his dick. I do this several times and for good reasons. Reason one being that I'm sure I'll have his dick in my mouth again today and I hate the taste of soap. And, reason two, the warm, rough cloth, is making his dick hard. Finally, he pulls away.

"You're incorrigible," he scolds.

"Perhaps, but you are fucking hot and fucking horny and you could use a half-a-dozen more doses of incorrigible before the night is over."

***

We're lying in my bed. I'm on my back with Kent lying along my left side, head on my chest and leg resting atop mine. I have my arm around his shoulders. He's distractedly playing with my chest hair. I trail my fingers over the soft skin of his back, while I distractedly play with my cock. It's only half-hard, which is fine, we're mostly just talking. Kent's dick is half-hard and leaking on my leg, making it wet. I don't mind at all.

"You really mostly bottom?" I ask. "Because you sure as shit fuck like a top."