Counting Roses

[Note: this is an entry in an "exactly 750-words" writing exercise. ]

Mr. Holloway is a big man—tall, heavy, but muscular. Mr. Simpson told me he was in construction—that he owned a construction company but was very hands on with his work. His hands do look big. He's standing at a window, watching me mow his yard. He's got a big yard. He's got a big house. And he's got a big beer belly, but he's also barrel-chested, heavily muscled. It's one of those windows that's also a full-length door, with three sections of glass that can be raised up and serve as a door.

He's watching me mow his yard. He's wearing just droopy athletic shorts, holding a beer can in one hand and scratching his belly with the other.

I know what he wants. He wants what Mr. Simpson got—what Mr. Simpson told him I'd give. But still I'm here, mowing his yard. I want to earn enough this summer to buy a motorbike before college in the fall. Just mowing lawns won't get me there. And once you've done it, it's easier to do it again.

It's not a hot day, but I'm just wearing athletic shorts and heavy boots, my T-shirt hanging on the mower handle—not because it's hot, but as advertising. And it works. I know I look good. I know men like to watch me—and more. I know men like Mr. Holloway and Mr. Simpson.

I walk up and down rows, toward the house and away, and Mr. Holloway watches me, drinks his beer, and scratches his belly. The lawnmower sputters and stops with an "outta gas" sound right in front of the window he's watching me from. The gas can is on the porch right in front of the window. I lean over to pick it up and look up and smile at Mr. Holloway. He smiles back.

He pulls the bottom two sections of the window door up and stands there, framed by what is now a door into his house.

"How about taking a break, Jason?" he asks. "Come on in, cool off, and have a drink before you start up again."

It's not a hot day. I haven't worked up a sweat. I don't really need to cool down. I know what Mr. Holloway wants. I need the money if I'm going to get that motorbike before the college term starts.

"That would be great, thanks, Mr. Holloway," I say, wiping my hands on my T-shirt, climbing up on the porch, and entering his house through that three-section window door. He stands aside to let me pass, but then puts his big, beefy hand on the small of my back to guide me into the house.

The room we enter is something else. Big Victorian furniture, Oriental carpets, and bold-color wallpaper that looks sort of Victorian too. What's unusual and a bit jarring, though, is the artwork on the wall—framed black-and-white photographs. Photographs of young men. Naked young men.

"Come on into the dining room, Jason," he says. "I'll get you something to drink in there."

He guides me out into the foyer and to the room beyond. His hand has moved down to palming my butt.

The dining room is like the first room was, but without the photographs. Heavy, dark-wood furniture on an Oriental rug, and flamboyant wallpaper. Large pinkish roses on a dark-green background. In all, the room is overpowering, oppressive.

There isn't anything to drink on the dining table. What there is is a wad of cash.

"Three hundred? That's what Simpson said it would take."

"Yeah, that's OK," I answer. And it is.

He moves in close behind me and I stand facing the table. His arms come around me and he buries his face in my throat. I moan as a hand goes under my waistband in front and he's fondling my dick and balls. I begin to pant.

It helps that he's behind me and I don't have to look at him.

He leans me over the table and I stretch my arms out wide, palming the table top. My shorts and jock slide down my legs as he goes down on his knees, his face burrowing into my crack, tonguing me.

He mounts me, grasping my wrists, his big, thick cock inside me, moving in and out in a doggy. He's stretching me with a big one.

I concentrate on the ornate roses on the wall. Counting roses. There are fifty-four roses on the opposite dining room wall.