Footprints in the Snow

When had they been made? This morning, while I was asleep in the loft, or last night when I was masturbating on the sofa? How many times had I stroked off and shot off. Three? Four? I shivered and headed for the stairs to the loft. When I was fully dressed I came down the stairs and went back into the kitchen. I was putting the coffee cup and the plate from the bagel in the kitchen sink when I looked out of the window above the sink and into the screened porch at the back of the house. There were snowy footprints, not melted, because it was below freezing outside, on the floor of the porch—coming to this window and also to the door out onto the porch.

I went to the door and opened it, noticing that the lock seemed to be broken, that the door couldn't be locked. Sure enough, the snowy footprints had come to the backdoor, shuffled around and retreated. They'd also gone to the sliding glass doors—no curtains—to the master bedroom off to the right.

But I hadn't slept in that bedroom last night. I shuddered to think that someone might have been standing there, in the dark, watching me in that bed—if I'd been in that bed. I, of course, had masturbated again in another bed the previous night before going to sleep. I was highly sexed, even when I had to take satisfaction in my own hands.

I didn't know what I could do. I felt violated, but I had to laugh at that. I'd never felt violated by a stream of younger, hunky men doing far more than watching me nearly naked or masturbating before. It was mostly the strangeness and mystery of it that put me on edge, I guessed—and being out here all alone. And all I had to do was wear more clothes and keep my personal sex to the loft overhead. No one could see me in the bed up there. And there was a TV with a DVD player up there—and even a fireplace. I could spend the weekend up there.

I went back down to the dining room and looked down the length of the driveway that rose to the carport under where I stood, and contemplated the footprints in the snow again.

That's when I saw him—bundled up in a dark green hunting jacket and leaning on a snow shovel—at the base of the driveway. He started moving when he saw me standing at the window. I watched him trudge up the driveway, slowly, carefully, because the snow was several inches deep and who knew what ice there was lying in wait underneath? His footsteps followed, but didn't obliterate, the footsteps in the snow that had preceded his.

I went to the front door. I'd already ascertained that he was a hunk. A Hispanic maybe, or Mediterranean in origin. Built big and sold; thick, curly black hair pushing out from underneath the hood of his jacket.

His smile was tentative when I opened the door to him. "Open a door to him," I thought, already horny enough again to open my legs to a man. I tried to keep my own smile from spilling over the sides of my face. He was a young—maybe twenty-five or so—muscular hunk. I could tell that despite the bulk of his clothing. If he had been watching me last night . . . and if he knew and was knocking on my door . . .

But the footprints must have been made in the night. I didn't think it was snowing when I went up to bed.

"Hi," he said. "I saw a car in the garage, so I knew someone was here. I thought maybe you'd like to have your driveway cleared."

"Thanks, but I was thinking I'd go out and do that myself this morning. For the exercise."

Was I being too forward in drawing his attention to my conditioning. I was in great shape for a fifty-year-old. And I knew I was good looking enough, in a blond, Scandinavian way. A good contrast to his olive tones. My mind went off into flights of fancy of olive skin on milky white, hands gliding on curves and in crevices of contrasting color, my eyes latched on curly black pubic hair as my mouth sank down the sides of a brown shaft.

I shook my head to clear it. If I said I wanted to clear the driveway myself, would he just back off—forever. He was probably straight. You never could tell. But that was just it; you never could tell. "Of course I have no idea if there even is a snow shovel here. The house belongs to a friend. I'm just hiding out here—alone—for the long weekend. And I see that you came prepared . . . I mean that you have a snow shovel."

I checked his expression. Was that a slight smile when I'd said "alone?"

"How much would you charge?" I asked.

His face lit up then. So, he was offering because he could use the money. I wondered, briefly, what else he'd do for money. It struck me then that maybe that was a good part of my trouble with men—I threw money at them; I bought their hard cocks. Not time to think about that now, though.

He named a price, which was fine, and I left him to turn toward starting the job. He turned back then, though, and said. "I see there's no firewood stacked up here. The firewood pile is against the side of the house. I could carry some of that up for you—enough to last the weekend."

"That would be good," I said.

"I could even bring some of it into the house if you didn't have enough inside."

"That would be nice too," I said. All of the signs were there. He'd even thought of a way to get into the house with me. "When you're done, I'll make you some coffee to warm you up before you have to go out again."

"That would be thoughtful," he said. A radiant smile before he turned back to the driveway.

Yes, I'm a quick thinker, I mused as I, reluctantly, closed the front door.

* * * *

The warming coffee afterward didn't work out quite as I expected. He did a quick job of the driveway and the wood and I saw that he was every bit the hunk I had estimated when he unburdened himself of a couple of layers of padding as he stood in the foyer and I admired what nature had formed.

But we didn't fuck.

I certainly wanted him to fuck me. He was a god in body and facial beauty, and he radiated a woodsy, fire-ash scent that turned me on—contrasting with, but similar in my response to the musky smell Reg3 had exuded the previous morning.

But we went no further than sitting at the dining room table, sharing a couple of cups of coffee and waltzing around the question of the bedroom. He was reticent and I didn't want to be the one to make the proposal. I laid a few hints, and he seemed to understand. But he didn't act on them.

"I'm Tony," he said. "No, I don't live in the area, not really, just moving through, and doing odd jobs here and there. Snow removal is there for the taking here on the mountain. Needed some cash to move on—toward D.C. or Baltimore or up the coast more, I guess. There should be work up there. I'm a carpenter; work in construction. Work with my hands."

I looked at his hands. Big, the fingers meaty and strong. I yearned to have them working my body.

The explanations came out in short phrases between sips as he did more looking out of the dining room window down toward the valley floor than at me, although I did my best to pose my body to the best advantage. When he looked at me, I maybe saw a bit of approval and interest, but I couldn't tell the nature of the interest. And I didn't want to be the one to make the proposal. Last night, to the extent that I had thought about where I was in life, I had come to the conclusion that part of the problem with me and my men was that I'd always been the one to make the proposal—to say I'd keep them financially, just in exchange for the sex. It hadn't been their fault to see it as a temporary arrangement. I'd set the conditions too low, and, from the beginning, I'd made clear that it was because I wanted it, needed it, had to have it.

If this Tony wanted it, he'd have to tell me. I didn't mind that it meant I'd be paying for it somehow. It already was an employer-employee arrangement. I had already given him money for the shoveling and wood carrying. And I'd added enough in a tip—enough for him to fuck me, as a matter of fact. But it had to be his move. The tip had been generous, whether I'd consciously piled it on or not. I did realize that this often was the approach—a generous tip to a personal trainer who I knew fucked men, for instance, was a recognized silent contract for added services. It always had worked before.

But he didn't make the move. He was polite and all and we got along just fine in discussion. But he didn't take me up to the loft and fuck me. More arousingly, he didn't bend me over the dining room table and fuck me right there. It was something that gave me pause in thinking he'd been a voyeur the previous night—responsible for the footprints in the snow up to the windows. And hadn't the footprints come after I'd gone to bed?

If he'd watched me last night, surely he could latch into the signaling today.

He seemed to be open with me until I'd quizzed him about where he was staying now. But he revealed enough for me to think he was camping outside, probably just inside the timber line at the end of the driveway. It was clear to me that he had been the one who had lurched out of the trees and almost into the Forester the previous afternoon. And it explained the woodsy scent of a campfire on his body—and even that he had known where the firewood for this cabin had been stacked. He probably was poaching wood from the cabin.

I didn't probe, though. I didn't want to lose him, and I didn't feel a responsibility for Reg3's woodpile. I needed to find out if he would or wouldn't if he were cultivated more—if he had been the man of the footprints in the snow.

And I also had to acknowledge that maybe this was all just me falling apart up here, wanting a man's cock inside me, and having just lost my steady fuck.

* * * *

That evening I turned all of the lights on in the living room and stood naked, in front of the living room window, wine glass in one hand and dick in the other, and slowly masturbated—twice—for anyone out there to see, shooting my cum off in a splatter against the glass of the window, my eyes moving from the twinkling of the lights in the Massanutten bowl and valley below to the shadow of the trees, looking for movement. Not seeing any.

I went to bed, hyped up, not dissatisfied, though, because my mind was racing about the possibilities of what my exhibitionism might engender—especially in the mind and arousal of the Mediterranean hunk named Tony, who probably was camping in the cold snow at the base of the driveway below the cabin. And who might be scouting around the house at night, looking for what he might see, what could give him pleasure. Leaving his footprints in the snow.

While I had been masturbating in front of the window, it had begun to snow, and it was accumulating nicely before I had shot off the second time. If it stopped snowing soon, I'd be able to check for footprints in the snow the next morning. I would know if anyone had been watching. Tony's feet were big and his boots had a distinctive sole pattern on them. I'd carefully checked that out when I'd had him in the house after he'd shoveled the driveway. I probably would know if the footprints were his.

I drifted off to sleep, masturbating myself before, completed once again, but not fully satiated, I rolled over onto my belly with a groan—not wearing the sleeping pants tonight. As I drifted into sleep, I conjured up the naked, muscular body of Tony—with me; beside me, stroking me with his hands as I reciprocated; under me, as, nose in curly black pubic hair, I sucked him big and throbbing; on top of me; inside me; fucking me hard, me bucking against him, crying out for the cock.

I moaned and raised my rump to him to give him a deeper angle. It was so beautiful, so real. And then I realized that it was real. I cried out as the cock withdrew, nearly the whole way, and then slammed down hard, deep inside me. Out and then in again. Strong hands were fisting my wrists, entrapping my arms above my head and spread, holding me gloriously in thrall to him. He was covering my back close, the hair on his chest scratching my back as his torso slid against me in rhythm with his cock pumping my channel.

I moaned a long, low, guttural moan, "Yes, yes, fuck me hard. Fuck me deep."

He growled into my ear, "More up on your knees, Sean. I can go deeper. You want me deeper."

Obediently, I raised myself more up on my knees and he was doggy fucking me. Hard, deep, pumping faster. I cried out in ecstasy.

"Yes, scream. Let me know you like it, that you want it. I've wanted to give this to you for so long."

I did scream out then, in passion and pleasure, bucking my butt back into him to meet his deep, hard thrusts.

I heard myself crying out, "Yes, god, Reg. Shit, yes. Fuck me hard."

I tensed with shock at what I'd called out. But of course I knew. I knew as soon as he began fucking me. The scent was musky, not woodsy; even in the dim light, I could tell the hands holding my wrists were not those of a young man; and the forearms were sinewy, tough, not smooth and hairy like Tony's had been as I watched him drink coffee at my dining room table.

I was being fucked by my boss, Reginald Walker III. And no matter how nonsensical that was, I didn't care. He could fuck every bit as well, could reach farther inside me even, could pump as long and as vigorously as any of the Rods, Stevens, Chucks, or Brads I'd had inside me. In the dark, like this, he was giving me a glorious fuck.

Between fuckings—there were several that night; he was a virile man, and I was a needy bottom—he whispered, "Here, only here. But you will take the key to this cabin again, won't you?"

"Again and again, if that's what you want," I whispered back. At last, a man richer than me, a man who made the decisions and that I didn't have to proposition and be a sugar daddy to. Fuck being seventy. He had a big cock and still was able to do what he wanted with it—what I wanted from another man's cock. "But how . . . we're almost nowhere, in the snow."

"I own the cabin next door too," he said. "I came here as soon as I left the office—as soon as you accepted the key to this cabin. When I watched you stroking yourself to that gay porn last night, I was sure of you."

Of course, the familiar blur of a passing black vehicle. Reg3 owned a black Land Rover. I'd only seen it a couple of times, but it had registered in my mind.

"How did you? How did you know?" It hit me then that he'd called me Sean. He knew all along who I was. "You planned this. You set this up, didn't you?" We'd been side by side, but he was on his knees again, his strong hands on my hips, turning me onto my belly. I don't know if it had come out as an accusation. I didn't mean it that way. I was in awe of what he'd planned, that he wanted to fuck me. I realized suddenly that, over the years, I'd fantasized him fucking me, without ever having put the face and the name to the dream. The cock, though, and how it could make me both scream and moan, I knew all too well from my fantasies.

"This is just for here," he admonished me again, his status and reputation in Washington foremost in his mind. "You understand that, don't you?"

"I understand." It came out as a moan because of what his hands were doing as they explored my body. "But you set this up, didn't you?"

"Yes, I've been planning this for years," he growled. "But you always were with some younger man. Not now, though. You were mooning about being left. You were ready; you are ripe for it. You like my cock, don't you?"

"Oh, shit, yes, I love it. But I don't understand. You knew I was with men?"

"Of course. I know everything that goes on in the office, and don't you forget it. But this is completely separate from the office. Don't forget that either. Only here, but you'll be here when I want you, won't you?"

"Yes," I answered meekly—happily, even. A man to take care of me, to order me around. And one who could fuck like this too. That was what I was missing in my life. I knew that now.

"Up on your knees," he hissed, and exhilarated, aroused, I complied. I cried out in ecstasy as, gripping my hips with his hands and me fisting up wads of the sheets with mine, he thrust inside me again, immediately setting to pumping me hard and deep. I came almost immediately.

And later, I came again and again and again.

"I'll be back tomorrow night," he whispered as he pulled out of me for the last time and I could feel his weight lifting off the bed in the loft in the darkness.

"Please, please come earlier," I murmured back, in glorious exhaustion. "There's something I want."

"If you want," he whispered. He slapped me on the bare butt. "This ass is mine at last," he said with a low laugh.

"Yes," I agreed, with a sigh.

* * * *

Reg3 came after dark Sunday night, entering the cabin through the back porch and the kitchen door. It was snowing again. He surprised me by entering in the back and was already half naked before reaching the living room. Again I had all of the lights on and a fire going in the fireplace. I had hoped to see his boots, but he'd left them in the kitchen. I did see his feet, though.

He laughed when he entered the living room, to find me standing there, naked, my dick in my fist. "So, you want me to fuck you in front of the fire, is that it?"

"No, I want you to fuck me in front of the window," I answered.

He gave me a strange look and a crooked smile, but he did as I asked for the first fucking—we both knew we'd want as many fucks as we could manage, he to affirm his virility to himself each time as age caught hold of him, and me because I was so needy and, admittedly, because I was worried about the onset of age as well.

He fucked me from behind, him standing and crouched behind me and me with the heels of my hands and the knees of my widespread legs pressed against the window glass. As I was nearing completion, he reached around, fisted my cock, and finished me off, my cum again splattering against the glass of the window. He took longer to come, but he did so finally, starting with a grunt and releasing me so that I could sink to the floor and offer him a cheek while he ripped the condom off and ejaculated on my face.

"You want to do it in front of the fire next?" I asked.

"No. I want to use the downstairs bedroom. I like the mattress in there better than upstairs."

I had in my mind the whole time that I would check the new-fallen snow the next morning for footprints. It hadn't been just a whim that I wanted to be fucked in front of the living room window. But, although I did check, and found what I was looking for, I didn't really need to check.

Reg3 fucked me on the master bedroom bed, with me on my back, pillows under the small of my back to elevate my buttocks to a deep penetration angle, and Reg3 kneeling between my spread and raised legs and holding my ankles up and out with his encircling fists. He was spending enough time leaning down to nip at my nipples as he fucked not to see what I could see—my head dangling over the far side of the bed, staring through the sliding glass doors out onto the darkened screened porch.

Tony standing here, on the porch, near the door, just inside the shadows, fisting and stroking his cock as he watched Reg3 fuck me.

I opened my mouth in a broad "O," exhibiting my willingness, my desire, to give Tony suck. He moved, briefly, closer to the glass, which he splattered with his cum before withdrawing into the shadows and fleeing the porch.

I had seen that Reg3's feet were regular sized and I didn't have to check out the soles of his boots. I did find the footprints in the new-fallen snow the next morning, both on the deck in front and leading up to and inside the porch in back. The size of Tony's feet; sole prints to match the pattern of Tony's boots. But I'd already seen what I needed to see to be sure of Tony now.

Still, I was a bit surprised Monday afternoon as I drove the Forester down the driveway—hopeful but until then not completely sure—to find Tony waiting at the bottom of the driveway. He was all bundled up in his forest-green coat and beside him, on the ground, was a pack of camping gear.