True Love

Despite the heat I was feeling from behind, a cooling February breeze was blowing in off the blue water below, sweeping across the condo balcony and entering through the open sliding-glass doors, disturbing, no doubt, the veil-like curtains flanking them. I looked mostly at the pillow below, its satiny case a kind of silver in color. Silver-grey. With each thrust I moaned, involuntarily, while beginning to wonder, as the pleasurable minutes ticked away, if my lover was growing tired of the endless vocalizing. Some guys, in my experience, the dominant type in particular, didn't like it.

"Shut up!"

"Yes. Yessir."

My new friend said nothing, however. He just fucked away, his tempo fast, relentless, though not overly forceful. He seemed to stop just shy of pounding into me each time—pounding me into the headboard—for which I was grateful. It made it more like love-making than a mere, desperate fuck. It was artful, his technique.

We'd met on the beach what seemed like minutes ago but was more like two hours. He'd complimented me on my colorful swimsuit which, I had to admit, perhaps blushing beneath my straw hat's wide brim, was actually a pair of panties. Women's panties. He claimed he'd suspected as much, as he reached out for a feel.

"Nice," he said, of my balls nested in the microfiber crotch. He asked me if I lived around here.

"No," I replied. "A ways away, in the next county."

"Too bad," he smiled, as he turned to walk with me, north. "I live in that condo hi-rise just before you reach the entrance to the park. It's within walking distance," he bragged, "though I drove today."

"Nice," I replied. What else was there to say?

"Seventeenth floor," he added. "Overlooking the waterway. Great view."

"You're lucky."

"Tell me about it," he grinned.

My new friend was about my height, though stockier in build, while in great shape. He was younger than me, I was sure, and I worried a bit, if one thing led to another, that once I'd removed my straw hat and dark shades he might decide I was too old for him. On the other hand, if it was just my slender, relatively youthful body he was attracted to, and the bulges in my panty...

A little further on he put his left arm around my waist, our hips occasionally bumping as a result. I began to get a hard on. Looking down, he noticed and laughed. He stopped—we stopped, abruptly.

"We need to do something about that," he offered.

"Sorry about that," I said.

"Why?"

I glanced around, nervously. "What if somebody sees?"

"Nobody cares here," he explained. "It's a gay beach. They'd probably be jealous."

We resumed our walk. He gave my ass a caress.

"Is that silk?"

"No. Just microfiber."

"It feels like silk."

"Not my strong point," I said, my voice once again edging into nervousness.

"What?"

"My ass. Too flat."

My new friend gave it a reassuring pat. "I bet it's just fine when you're on your hands and knees, balls hanging down."

I uttered an "Oh" for some insecure reason.

"At least I assume you're a bottom," the man went on, "wearing panties to the beach and all."

"I am," I hastened to agree. If it came to it I didn't want any confusion on that point. I might have an erection in my bikini briefs at this moment, but...

We stopped our forward progress again. Or rather, he stopped it.

"We could go back to my place," he said, "have a drinky-poo or two and put that sweet ass of yours to good use."

If I'd spoken immediately I would have stammered. Instead I took a breath and said, through a smile, "That would be nice."

"Good," he said, giving me another pat. "Let's turn around and go back. You can give me a ride..."

"Sure," I agreed, initially. Then I thought about it for a moment and said, "But you drove here, right, you said?"

"No. I said I walked."

"Oh. OK," I replied, giving my head a slight shake. We'd reversed course and now were headed south, the parking lot a good half-mile away. Once we left behind the gay half of the beach for the tourist half, I'd have to wrap a towel around my waist. Or do something to conceal the all-too obvious.

Less than an hour later we stood on his bedroom balcony sipping sweet drinks and looking down on the wide waterway, its deep blue dotted with evanescent whitecaps and, more permanently, white sailboats and pricey motorboats.

"Quite a view," I observed, already beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol on an empty stomach.

"Expensive," my friend said, between sips, "but the view makes it worth it. It never gets old."

"Of course not," I agreed.

One drink later, at his urging, my panties were off and I was in bed with him. He'd penetrated me with his bare cock, a long, medium-thick circumcised one. We'd never even discussed condoms and by now it was too late. Caught up in the ethereal pleasure it was too late for me to even care. Besides, my lover seemed to have great control. Maybe he'd pull out at the last minute, ejaculate on my backside.

He would not, as it turned out, and I was left, after pulling my panties back on and sharing another round of cocktails, feeling a great inner warmth knowing I carried a former part of him, a few spoonfuls of his semen, his putative love, deep inside me. Out on the balcony once again with him, a salty breezed blowing in our faces, I put my arm around my lover's naked waist and said, "You know, we could do this on a regular basis if you want."

"I'd like that," he said, though somewhat distantly. Like a verbal ship on a faraway horizon.

"I could drive out on weekends, like today, and..."

I wanted to say: I could come out on Saturday, we could go to the beach, come back for cocktails, fuck, fuck again later if you wanted. I could spend the night, we could spend most of Sunday together. You could fuck me in the morning (if you're up to it)...

Feeling that loving, glowing warmth inside me I wanted to say these things but—didn't want to go too far too fast. We barely knew each other, after all. Maybe he had a boyfriend who was away for the weekend. Maybe this, like so many of my sexual encounters, would prove to be just a one-time thing. A fling.

From that distant horizon my lover seemed to snap back to a closer reality. The two of us standing on a seventeenth-floor balcony.

"That would normally be great," he said, "but..."

But. I felt my heart and hopes sinking. Like the nearby potted plant tossed over the balcony.

He went on: "The condo's actually a share, and the actual owners are gonna be back next week. So I kind of have to be..."

Gone. Out of here.

"Oh," I said, unable to hide my disappointment—on several levels. So he hadn't actually driven his car to the beach and he wasn't actually the owner of this luxury condo overlooking the water.

"So where are you going to be living?" I asked, hoping he would tell me it was somewhere nearby. Maybe a beach bungalow?

"Don't know yet," he replied bluntly. "I'm still looking. But I don't have a car, so..."

Now he didn't have a car at all.

"Money's tight," he went on, "so..."

"But this place must cost a fortune. How do you—"

"I'm just watching the place. For the owners. Watering the plants," he smiled, "and stuff. They kind of know I'm staying here, but..."

"They just think you're...?" I was having a hard time even finishing the thought.

He was still smiling. "What they don't know won't hurt 'em. And," he joked, "the plants are healthy. Look!"

As the imposter pointed, below and to our right, I looked down at the lone potted plant I'd earlier fantasized about tossing over the railing.

"I won't get paid for watching the place till they get back," he informed me, "and I need to find a place, like, pronto. Too bad you don't live on the beach."

Yeah, too bad, I thought.

"Think you could loan me a little to get me by?"

Loan you? I was stunned.

"Yeah, for the fuck?"

"What about it?" I said coldly. And for that matter, as the sun sank lower, the inward breeze was getting colder. Chilly against my bare chest at any rate.

"What's a fuck go for these days? In a luxury condo? Great view? Big bed? Free drinks? They left the rum," presumably referring to the condo's actual owners, "but I had to supply the rest. The mix. A hundred and fifty easy. Two hundred?"

The man who'd just fucked me so well and so seemingly lovingly and deposited his sperm inside me...he was now asking me for money. He was prostituting himself. He was a fraud. He'd sought me out and set me up, it seemed. I was devastated.

"I don't carry that kind of money around on me," I said. "Besides—"

"Hey, you wanted to be fucked. You begged for it," he exaggerated. "I did the deed. I deserve to be paid, dude."

Dude?

"We never discussed money," I said. "I wouldn't have—"

"We're discussing it now. There's an ATM on the other side of the bridge. We could get dressed and go there now."

I stood there gripping balusters' concrete railing. Peering directly below was a pale-blue pool shaped like a figure-8. I couldn't believe what had happened in the past few minutes. I was speechless. Almost.

"You should be paying me," I muttered.

"What?"

I looked up, and over to my left. "You got it backwards. Usually it's the one who gets fucked who gets paid."

He laughed. "You're the one who wanted it."

"I was minding my own business walking along the beach."

"Well this is what happens, dude, when you're not careful."

Careful? What did he mean by THAT? He'd spoken with a menacing tone. I backed away from the balcony, the steep drop.

"I think I should get dressed and go."

"I'll fuck you again," the man hastened to offer. "Give me a half hour, an hour...We'll have another drinky-poo," he went on, "and then..."

I hesitated before turning and entering the bedroom. The scene of the "crime." I stopped and he came up behind me, pressing against me in my panties.

"Don't tell me you don't want it. How long's it been for you?"

A long, long time, I thought, but didn't say.

"My big cock up your sweet ass? Twice in one afternoon? Come on!" he gloated. "Then you drive me to the ATM. Don't tell me two fucks aren't worth two hundred bucks. A hundred a fuck? A bargain."

My head was spinning, swimming. Like someone who'd lost his footing on one of those fancy sailboats below. Except instead of a choppy inlet I'd fallen into a liquid vortex, a whirlpool.

I had been fucked for the first time in ages. And he did have a perfect cock for my ass, my hole, and he was a terrific lover.

I considered my bank account. My income. I certainly wasn't rich—not like the owners of this condo—but it wasn't like I was hurting for money.

Finally I said: "I can't afford this on a, you know, like, weekly basis."

"That's cool," he replied, nesting his inchoate erection vertically in my crack. "I'll be around. On the beach anyway. Some where."

"Two hundred today," I agreed, "but from then on..."

"A hundred a fuck," he said. "There's this little motel on the beach...I know the owner, she'll give me a special rate long as I fuck her now and then..."

He went on, wearing a grin: "Maybe I'll be staying there for a while. It's not that far from here..."

I have to admit, at that moment, fraud that he was, I wanted his beautiful long cock in me again. I wanted him to pump out the sperm—his sperm—from the earlier fuck and have it run down my crack to my balls, and drip from there.

I wanted his "sloppy seconds."

"Remind me," he said, as we once again climbed on the bed and got in our respective positions, top and bottom, "to wash the sheets after we finish.

"After we get back from the bank I'll throw 'em in the dryer," he added.

"I'll do the wash," I was quick to volunteer, as my dubious lover's penis easily penetrated me a second time. He began to fuck me.

I couldn't help myself. Deception was the closest thing—the only thing—I'd ever known to true love.

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