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Valentine's Day Surprise


On the doorstep were red roses, a good dozen of them tied inside a cellophane cone with small hearts on it.

Michael had thought he'd heard a knock, which was why he had opened the door. But now that he looked about, he couldn't see anything except a small white van disappearing around the corner, and he looked back at the roses. His heart skipped a few beats as he wondered who might have sent them, wildly fantasizing it might have been the gorgeous guy in accounts who he'd shared a joke with occasionally, or that hunk at the bar the other night he had talked to. But he realized the guy in accounts was married and that the hunk in the bar had gone home with a hot university student who seemed to get all the good looking ones—and not surprisingly, Michael thought as he sighed and picked the flowers up. He was still young—but not that young, or very good looking, or that confident and up front. He looked for a card and found it, and his heart jumped again, wondering—it said, "See you at 10 am."

Which had him suddenly quivering with excitement. The dog-training club! He had been going there for about nine months now and had joined because he had got a black poodle, for company, but not by choice. His sister, Amelia, had left her husband and gone off to find herself, in India, and Patrick, the poodle, had been in danger of going to doggy heaven. She had told Michael it was him or death row, and he had not been able to refuse to have Patrick.

Patrick arrived as an uncontrollable wrecking crew. Well, he had been nine months earlier. Since then the obedience training at the club had certainly improved Patrick's behavior, making him almost easy to live with. And they were sociable outings also, and Michael was very much enjoying them himself too. Now he wondered whom the flowers might be from. Was it the instructor, a photographer in real life, with the Australian Cattle Dog? Now there was a pretty hunky guy. Or maybe the surly but not bad-looking shaved-headed bodybuilder with the Doberman? They had bumped into each other in the men's one day, and George, that was his name, had looked at Michael's dick as he pissed and indicated the stalls with a flick of his head. Michael had to admit he had been tempted. But he knew how embarrassed he would have felt if they had been caught and knew that Patrick wanted training more than he wanted to blow George. And public toilets had never been his thing anyway. And no, he couldn't see George sending anyone flowers. He had to admit he had no idea who it could be, but there was a thrill to the mystery, and a bigger thrill to know he would soon discover who the roses were from.

Michael hurriedly got Patrick ready and threw their gear in the car and headed off to the training grounds, arriving early for once. When he got out of the car, he was nervously looking about to see who was there and who might be looking his way, but he couldn't see anything unusual. Heading over to the table he always sat at in the breaks, he saw Polly and her owner, Malcolm, unpacking there already. Another pair who had arrived earlier than usual.

Michael and Patrick always sat with Malcolm and Polly, and Malcolm always joked that Patrick and Polly made a wonderful couple. Malcolm, who was mature and sophisticated, and—well, just "and." Micheal envied Malcolm's partner, Dale, and wished he too could have a partner as perfect as Malcolm. Dale had come along to pick Malcolm up once after training, about six months before, and to Michael had seemed stuck-up. Younger than Malcolm and incredibly good looking. And sexy. Dale had oozed sexy, and it was hardly surprising that Malcolm and he were together. Malcolm worked in the media Michael knew, so he met all those kind of men all the time. Models, actors, dancers, photographers, designers, all those arty types who always seemed to be so good looking and dressed so casually and well.

Not long after Malcolm had mumbled something about Dale going overseas on a shoot. "How the other half lives," thought Michael, who had traveled overseas but never been flown there at someone else's expense.

"Hi," he said, getting that little thrill he always did when he got close to Malcolm. That "I wanna touch him" urge, which he always pushed aside. "How's Polly today?" he added, bending down to pat her. Patrick coming up with him and doing the sniff thing with Polly and both dogs wagging their whole bodies as they wagged their tales and got reacquainted.

And as the dogs played, the two men started chatting, as they always did, an easy lively chat that put wondering who had sent the roses temporarily out of Michael's mind.

Then the training started, and it was as he headed back to the table after the first training session that Michael saw Malcolm looking worried, though a big smile appeared when he saw Michael coming.

"A good session. Did you see Patrick return? He did it perfectly," Michael said, with pleasure.

"Um, yes I did. He was great." Malcolm hesitated nervously, "Um, did Patrick get the roses Polly sent him?" he blurted out.

"Oh. Polly sent them to Patrick," Michael replied, suddenly disappointed.

He had been getting downhearted during training, because no one had approached him to confess to sending the flowers, and he'd looked for George, who wasn't there, and the sexy instructor had walked straight past him, not even saying "hi."

"Oh. Yes, we got them. Gee, Polly, that was very generous of you. Thank you," he said to her, covering his sudden and deep disappointment by making a fuss of the two dogs. "I knew it must be someone here who sent them, but . . . ," he stammered, confusion and disappointment mixed up.

"Thank you," he added looking up at Malcolm and seeing a look on his face he had never seen before, but one that quickly disappeared.

"And what are you and Dale doing to celebrate Valentine's Day?" he asked, wanting to get that look out of his mind.

"Dale? Oh he's not around anymore. He didn't come back from Florence," Malcolm replied, with a shrug. "He's been gone for nearly six months now. And . . . there is no one else."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Malcolm. You didn't say . . . why would he do that? He's a fool."

"And what about you; anyone special you are seeing later?"

"Me?" Michael asked, smiling and trying to look as if he was quite happy not to be doing anything with anyone, "No, nothing on."

"So. Well, um, why don't you bring Patrick over for dinner with Polly?"

Michael shrugged, "No reason not to," he said. "But they are dogs, Malcolm. I don't think they really understand that much," he added, smiling, but not really being a man who wanted to treat his dog like a child. Patrick was a dog, and good company, but not a child, not human.

"Well, I would still like to see the pair of you tonight—that is, if you want to come for dinner."

"Yes, oh yes," Michael said hurriedly, his heart racing and his head spinning, looking at Malcolm in a nervously excited but uncertain way. "And the flowers. They weren't . . .?"

Malcolm looked embarrassed and flushed. "They weren't just for Patrick; they were for you too, Michael," Malcolm replied quietly, his eyes looking at Michael in that way that made Michael's skin tingle and his dick lurch.

Michael was in a spin for the next training session, and when he got back to their table, he couldn't help wanting to touch Malcolm. Really, he wanted to tear his clothes off him and throw him down on the table and fuck his brains out. But instead, he nervously brushed against him and patted his arm and was aware that Malcolm was doing the same to him, and where they touched a shock ran between them. It was so intense, and they were suddenly like men who had just discovered each other, instead of old friends.

Michael and Patrick arrived on time at the large terrace house, and Malcolm opened the door as soon as they knocked, with Polly trotting up behind him.

The two dogs were almost immediately shown out into the yard, and to Michael's surprise, Malcolm locked the glass doors and turned to him with a worried look on his face.

"I have to say something," he said. "I know I am a few years older than you, but . . ." he trailed off, his hand going to his lap and moving what Michael realized was a semihard cock into a more comfortable position. "I realized before Dale even left that . . ." he was saying as he was moving closer, "that the highlight of my week was taking Polly to training each Saturday and sitting with you. But you never made a move, and I, well, I am still the one who usually gets the moves put on them, because of my work, so—so I didn't think you were interested. Are you?"

Michael reached out for Malcolm, to steady him, as he looked so uncertain. And in a moment Malcolm's arms were about him pulling him in close, squeezing him tight, and pressing his body against his length as their mouths met.

Michael's head was spinning, and his normally mild libido went into overdrive, and he was the one crushing the breath out of Malcolm. And his dick was quickly hard and rubbing against Malcolm's as they struggled to force their bodies into one skin. Then Malcolm was stripping Michael's clothes off, unzipping him and reaching his hand in to grasp the hot throbbing tool that struggled to get free.

When he had Michael's dick in his hand Malcolm fell to his knees taking that tool into his mouth and making sucking love to it as his hands explored Michael's balls before one hand cupped them and the other ran up his belly. Michael almost lost it and quickly he took control, pulling Malcolm up and kissing him, hands exploring him, both moaning, before leading him to the nearby sofa, unzipping Malcolm and pushing his pants and briefs down as they reached it.

"Here," Malcolm said digging a condom and lube out of his pocket as his pants fell to the ground.

Then Michael was laying him forward over the back of the sofa and rolling a condom on and beginning to work on Malcolm's ass. When he entered him, sliding into the hot hole of a man he knew he had wanted since they first met, and knew he had never dreamed of this happening. This was heaven. He fucked wildly in his excitement and came quickly—too quickly—but so did Malcolm, and he fell forward, wrapping his arms about Malcolm, kissing his neck as he stayed buried in his ass. Not wanting to pull out, in case Malcolm disappeared when he did and he found it was all a dream.

For a few minutes they lay there regaining their breath their bodies pressed together and gazing through the glass doors into the garden. Outside, the dogs were playing, and Patrick tried to mount Polly, but she shook him off with a growl and a snap.

"She doesn't know what she is missing, the silly bitch," Malcolm murmured, and they both laughed.

"She's not in heat," Michael said, when he could talk again. "That's her problem. Now me, I am in heat," he said, crushing Malcolm to him as his dick began to grow inside his passage. "I never imagined us . . . all those male models you meet and . . ."

"I thought you said you were in heat," Malcolm murmured, reaching back and pulling Michael's face down and turning his own face so their lips met. And he moved his ass in a sensuous circling motion as Michael's cock filled again and soon he was being plowed long and deep, this time Michael holding back and trying to reach every part of Malcolm's beautiful ass. And reaching under him to stroke his cock and holding himself in, and stroking, so they came together in one merging ejaculation, before collapsing together, looking into each others eyes for a moment and seeing the total fucked happiness there.

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