Pickup Pt. 02

There was a click as he closed the tube, followed by a 'thuth' when it hit the carpet.

After greasing my penis completely, he held it vertical. "Ok, you know what to do."

Of course I knew, he had made it pretty clear. I lowered him - and nearly came when I felt my slicked erection glide between his cheeks.

He brought my tip to his rosebud. I lowered him further, trying to push in. I heard a gasp of pain.

I pulled him up. "Keith, we don't have to do this tonight. We can take it slow."

"No, give me a minute. It's been a long time since I last... I have to adjust."

A minute later he told me to try again. I moved him down, alert for any sign of pain.

He had adjusted; I entered him easily.

I asked if he was alright.

"Yes, it feels good. Keep going."

As I continued to lower him he added his other arm to the one around my neck. Then he leaned back, allowing me in deeper. Before long I told him I was in all the way.

"I know. You can begin moving if you want."

I began slowly raising him until I had pulled most of the way out, and lowering him until I was all the way back in. He made himself just tight enough to give me the maximum pleasure.

After a few cycles, he took over and moved himself up and down, stroking my erection with his talented sphincter while I kept my hands on his behind.

I was in heaven.

The sounds I made must have alerted him whenever I got near the brink, because he stopped every time until I had settled down. The result was a prolonged buildup, ending in a colossal orgasm! As I felt the cum shooting through my penis and into Keith, my ecstasy was so great that my legs gave way and I fell to the floor, taking him with me.

He had given new meaning to the word 'climax'.

I heard a breathy "hhmphh!" as we hit the carpet - I had fallen on top of him. A pang of fear shot through me. "ARE YOU OK?"

I couldn't make out the answer, because he was now laughing so hard.

The feeling of relief set me off, and we lay tangled together, roaring like maniacs.

When we had laughed ourselves hoarse, Keith rolled us over, putting him on top of me. He started sliding up and down, rubbing his erect penis on my belly. Almost immediately it began to twitch, and warm thick jets shot between us.

As we lay quietly in the afterglow, I caressed the behind that had recently given me so much pleasure. "Would you like to top next time?"

"No" he answered. "I'd much rather have you inside me."

He rolled off, and we got up.

He kissed me. "I love you, Eric."

I returned the kiss. "I love you too, Keith. I love you very much."

For a moment he stood there looking thoughtful. Then he asked: "Enough to make me your husband?"

"What?"

"I'm asking if you love me enough to make me your husband."

"Is this one of those 'who loves who more' tests?"

"No" he answered, getting down on one knee. "Eric Malcolm Slater, will you marry me?"

Seeing the look of adoration on his upturned face, my love for him was boundless.

But I also remembered the times he had kept me in suspense. This was my chance at payback:

I've developed a small vocabulary in a number of languages. It helps me in dealing with vendors throughout the world. I called upon that vocabulary now: "Let's see, how should I answer? In Portuguese? Sim. In Swahili? Ndio."

Keith began to look apprehensive.

"In Amharic? Awo. In Japanese? Hai!"

There were tears in his eyes; he thought I was saying no.

I raised him to his feet. "How about English? You bet your sweet ass I'll marry you!"

=====

My friends, and the gallery owners I deal with, all congratulated me on my upcoming marriage. One of the owners even suggested a venue for the ceremony.

So in her gallery, among paintings that included some of Keith's own works, we spoke our vows, exchanged rings, and a month before his twenty-first birthday Keith became my husband.

Epilogue

Two and a half years have passed since that day. Those years have seen some changes:

I signed Keith's trust fund over to him when he turned twenty-one. The income from the fund and from his paintings have made him financially independent. He now divides his time between his easel, the large garden he has always wanted, and his classes at a local college. I asked him what changed his mind about getting a college education. He told me that our dinner conversations had made him realize how little he knows about the world, even about art. So he's majoring in Art History and taking courses also in a variety of other subjects.

"I never went to college" I told him. "I hope you won't lord it over me when you're better educated than I am."

He laughed. "That would be ridiculous. Even if I end up with a pile of degrees I'll never be as smart as you."

Our weekends follow a standard pattern: Every Saturday we do something together, either outdoors or indoors depending on the season and the weather. Sunday is my day to relax while Keith tends his garden and works on his latest painting. He's a perfectionist, refining a piece far beyond the point at which I tell him it's ready for sale.

Demand for his work has been rising steadily as word of his innovative style spreads among art collectors. He's now my top-selling artist. Or I should say our top-selling artist, because when we married I dissolved my sole proprietorship, 'E. Slater Fine Arts', and established the partnership, 'Slater and Lawrence Fine Arts'.

Somehow Keith has become even more gorgeous than he was the day I met him, and his voice has deepened into a velvety, erotic baritone. So now not only can he get me hot with a single kiss, he can do it with just his voice.

At night we often make love and fall asleep in each other's arms. We later separate but in the morning I sometimes find myself back in his arms and we make love again before starting out for the day.

Yesterday morning I did not find myself in Keith's arms. He wasn't in bed at all. I sat up and pulled the covers off to go search for him.

Just then he walked in carrying a bed tray that held French Toast, black coffee, two small sausages, and freshly-squeezed orange juice. My favorite breakfast. "I made this myself" he said.

I squinted at him. Cooking is not among his talents.

"Ok, Naomi supervised" he admitted.

He had been working in the hot kitchen. That explained why he was shirtless and his chest gleamed.

I gave him a big smile. "What's the occasion?"

"Our anniversary."

My smile evaporated; he was scaring me. "Keith, our anniversary is in October. This is March."

"That's our wedding anniversary. It's time we began celebrating my pickup."

"Your what?"

"On this day precisely five years ago I was standing on a cold, windy street, ready to have sex with anyone who would pay me. I was even about to give up painting, the one thing that brought me any real satisfaction. All because I had no other way to escape my violent father. You picked me up and gave me another way. Now I'm painting to my heart's content, even earning money at it, and I'm happier than I thought I could ever be. You know why that is?"

"You just told me: You're a successful artist."

Keith made a noise like an error buzzer on a TV game show. "Not even close" he said, opening the legs of the bed tray and setting it down across my thighs. "Yes, I couldn't be more pleased that people like my paintings. But what makes me happier than I ever believed possible is being with a man who never tires of showing me how much he loves me, and who I love with all my heart. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold. And while you're eating, you can decide what you'd like to do today. We're both taking the day off."

I flashed him an evil grin. "Seeing you without a shirt gives me plenty of ideas about what I'd like to do."

So we spent the day in bed.

It was a wonderful anniversary.

End