Cleaning Day Gets Messy

Sunday is cleaning day in the apartment for me. I am very tidy for guy on the OCD spectrum, among other spectrums. While cleaning day is almost every day, I throw myself into it on Sunday. Having to take on an emergency roommate significantly increased my cleaning workload. Beth, my ex-roomy, was pretty neat for a goth-girl, but her replacement Bob was a slob, though I didn't call him Bob the Slob to his face.

I only accepted a cisgender guy because Beth left abruptly to live with her new girlfriend leaving me short of cash for the next month's rent. I had to scramble to get someone into her room and rent money into my hands before I got a late charge or worse. I really couldn't blame Beth too much; her new Stud gal was very hot.

After a month of Bob detritus, I was getting really tired of his slob lifestyle. I didn't mind his all-hours gaming addiction; I even played Fortnite with him if I could be Catalyst. I didn't even mind that he lived in his camo-boxers and Dream Theater metal-band Tee shirt unless he was going out or entertaining his thick girlfriend. It wasn't like I could complain about dress codes because I too had an at home clothing style some might find peculiar. I slept in a man's shiny blue nightshirt with golden dragons on it, and I would happily wear it around the apartment before I changed for work. I can't help if it the knee length garment looked a lot like a woman's nightgown, it said men's right on the label. When affecting a casual style after work I mostly wore shorts, thigh-huger stockings (for warmth of course) and some sort of loose (some might say blousy) top.

No, I didn't mind his dressed down attire; what I did mind was that he and his girl were often too lazy to go to his bedroom. Although I can empathize. If I were her I would not want to enter the disaster zone Bob called his bedroom. Rutting like two elk on the couch was sometimes a show I couldn't resist, but after such visits it would take me hours to scrub all the pecker and twat tracks off the sofa.

Bob was not an early riser at the best of times, but on Sunday, after his Saturday night rack of beer, Bob was like a ground hog terrified of his shadow. I put off vacuuming and turned my attention to laundry. I liked my clothes clean and sweet smelling, and the lacy foundations I didn't hand-wash I separated by colors. I know I was more concerned with my appearance than most fellas my age. It goes with the territory of a less masculine couture. Not that I was a serious cross-dresser obsessed with passing. I just liked a few things that might be considered androgynous at best and girly at worst. I didn't believe my clothing choices defined my gender or sexual attitude. I wore stuff that gave me pleasure and comfort, and that it included some not so manly things; too bad for judgmental people.

Today, I sported a white crop-top Tee, old cutoff frayed jeans, rather too short and thigh high cotton stockings in alternating white and peach bands. All my Ice Silk bikini briefs were in the wash, but who would care I was going commando around the apartment. I do admit I never wore my old holey shorts in public since wearing them might be considered a bit cheeky.

I had closed the lid on the washer, the sound of running water confirmed the cycle was under way. Suddenly a strong hand grabbed me by the back of the neck. I jumped and gave a startled cry. "Let go, stop fucking around," I demanded.

Bob laughed. He liked to sneak up and scare me into a high-pitched shriek. It was his juvenile sense of humor that unfortunately worked more often than not. "Haven't started fucking around," he said. His oddly serious tone was laden with foreboding.

"I mean it; let me up, I have work to do." I didn't struggle, not wanting to dignify his clownish antics by futilely trying to break free of his strong grip.

"We both do," he predicted, with a deep worrying rumble. He used his greater strength and weight to push me down further. I had to hold myself on my elbows and forearms to keep my face off the cold white enamel. "You're always prancing around in your shorts and stockings thinking you can cock tease me and I won't do nothing?"

"I don't complain that you are always in your silly camo-boxers flopping about like a trout in a sack," I answered, as if his question was not rhetorical.

"Don't see why I am the only guy who don't get to poke your tight fag ass."

That was offensive on several levels, and I felt it was also untrue. I was not technically gay. I consider giving head little more than kissing so I don't really have sex with men. I defined myself as potentially Bi but undecided. I know you are thinking that I deluding myself and was merely in the closet. I don't see it that way. I was not hiding my quirks since moving out on my own four months ago, just not sure how to define those quirks.

Part of the reason I moved out of my parent's place was so I could uncover the truth of what personal relationships actually meant to me. Not that I had personal relationships at the moment. What I had was work and home. Work where I could make almost enough money to have my own place. Home where I could retreat to a neutral corner in the battle of sexual ideology. I was taking my time to codify who I was before I tried to figure out who everyone else was. I might admit much of my life was theoretical rather than experimental, but that's all I was willing to admit.

True I didn't have a girlfriend. When not old enough to frequent bars the options for meeting interesting people (male or female) are limited. I was neither desperate enough nor committed enough to try random hookups at known cruising sites or online. Of course, it might also be due to the simple fact I was not very sexually aggressive; dating norms dictated an expectation of seduction through displays of masculine dominance, like Beth's new squeeze.

"Have you gone crazy?" I accused, batting his hand away from the button fly of my tattered jean shorts.

"Yeah, you make me crazy horny and I'm not going to suffer anymore." With that announcement he peeled my shorts down to my knees, effectively hobbling my movements. That is when I discovered he wasn't lounging in his boxers. He flopped his turgid cock in the valley of my firm ass as if it was a frankfurter nestled in a bun.

The first thing that popped into my as he pressed the small of my back with one hand and back of my neck with the other was how big his hands were. Leaning is weight on me, moving his dick up and down my crack as if he was sawing me in half, caused another thought to pop into my head: Ge,e he is hot, stiff and big.

I had never expected to be ambushed by my straight roomy. Never expected him to pull my shorts down, and certainly never expected to feel the smooth solid heat of his crown aimed at my ass. I heard him spit on his dick then he rubbed the lubed head teasingly against my pucker. If he expected me to melt and beg him to nail me, he was mistaken. I admit I am indiscriminately oral, but I was terrified of being a genuine bottom. Anal was an activity I associated with a nearly unlimited array of embarrassing outcomes not to mention pain.

I demanded he get off me and tried to break free. Of course, my fruitless efforts achieved no more than to squirm my ass provocatively against his poised cock. The warm pressure of his spit-slicked crown, coupled with my frantic wriggling, sent an involuntary shudder through me. I must admit it did feel surprisingly good to be massaged by his swollen heat dripping with anticipation.

When he pushed against me without benefit of foreplay, I gave a tip-toe dance of pain. I stridently offered my opinion on his attempt by using colorful language to describe his parentage and mental acuity. His dick bowed; my defenses held. He eased up and loosened his grip on my neck.

"Hey, don't be like that," he whined. The nerve. He was complaining that I wasn't dutifully accepting his advances. He pushed again to no avail. He wailed, "Stop holding out; it isn't fair. You made my balls blue, now I need you."

His greedy lust for my body and plaintive cry for my surrender stirred mixed emotions within me. I almost felt sorry for him. More importantly, his urgent hunger touched me on a primal level. A deep animal part of my brain, bereft of rational thought, responded to his words and actions with alarming interest. His third attempt began to show signs of success as I felt my pucker distend and my resolve weaken. I was not sure how long I could hold my fortress against such a determined assault or how long I wanted too. Inexplicably my annoyance at Bob's behavior began to fade.

"Wait, wait just a second," I pleaded. "Strip my shorts off first, I need better footing."

There was a pause for a moment as my request registered with Bob's lust impaired brain, and then he lifted his hand from my back, pulling my shorts down so they collected in a pile at my ankles. I stepped out of the entangling faded fabric. With a deep sigh, as much from resignation as surging curiosity, I spread my feet apart while remaining on tip-toe waiting for the inevitable. I tried my best to relax my entire body, not just my demure rosebud. Like a door with hinges rusted shut I gave a trailing screech when, Bob's cock pried me slowly open. In defeat my body capitulated with an automatic relaxation of splintered submission.

I told myself that when confronted with ultimate defeat by a larger adversary it was wise to avoid unnecessary violence by capitulation. I know now it was a silly rationalization to think that. Once I had given in, I found the very act of yielding to his lust highly erotic. My brain was firing in a sparking rush of thoughts trying to integrate novel emotions of ardor with physically carnal overload. At the moment of entry, I was in awe at how my body obeyed its own set of rules over which my conscious mind exerted only slight control. I marveled at how a hot dick forcing through a constricted aperture caused discomfort and yet promised magnificent sensory enjoyment. Overwhelmed by ample evidence I admitted the obvious. "Oh god, your dick is in my ass."

"My big dick," Bob corrected. "You like my big dick don't you, little slut?" His lack of originality in dialogue didn't bother me. It was not the delivery of his corny lines that mattered. It was the delivery of his dick that interested me at that moment.

Besides, he was unlikely to withdraw his cock if I told him I didn't like it. We both knew he wasn't about to remove his cock until he was finished. Being finished with me required effort from both of us. With strong restraining fingers dimpling my hips, he began to play in and out polka with my ass. It was not the fast frantic humping of one dog on another, not yet. It was slow exploratory delving to see just how far he could shove and how loud I would squeal.

The answer to that was he could shove up to his huge swinging-balls and I could squeal like a forgotten teapot boiling away. Not until all my breath had been forced from me by his drilling dick did the discomfort in my tight bung diminish. Slowly I began to warm to his ridged heat deep within until I accepted the exhilarating sensation of his dick with enthusiasm. I squirmed when it waggled around inside me as he shifted his hips from side to side and up and down, testing the boundaries of my ass and my sanity.

Sucking for air I gave little hiccuping sounds in mirror tempo to the sensual movements of his toying cock. My tip toe dance of pain subsided. I remained on tip toe due to the difference in our height and fear if I didn't his dick might slip out. After several minutes the effects of being squashed beneath his substantial frame began to tell.

"Wait. Let go my hips, you're crushing me."

He slapped my exposed ass and said, "I won't fall for that."

I tried to think how to put it so he understood. Finally, I blurted out, "I need to lift my leg so you can go deeper and faster." I knew faster was key to getting him finished. Faster was also something my own body desperately required.

That galvanized him to action. He stopped holding me down by force, pulled out, and let me stand up. Freed of his weight I had ample opportunity to flee, but no desire to do so. I climbed atop the washer so my hips rested upon the front edge. I took hold of the back of the machine where the dials are with both hands to steady myself. I lifted my right knee up to rest on the smooth metal surface. This achieved full submission of my exposed asshole in all its pink glistening glory. The very act of supplication to his hunger thrilled me beyond words. I felt so tantalizingly exposed, so deliciously defenseless, and so wonderfully yielding to his will. My new poise, besides being an exciting end in itself, removed any obstacle to Bob's breathless ardor.

"Wow, that's so hot," he mused, with husky gusto.

Coupled with the tummy trembling thrill of exposing my surrender to him, his lame praise elevated my mood into an area of heightened passion I had never before felt. I realized I wanted him in me not merely for the delightful sensations I felt when he used me but for the physical confirmation of his praise that only a hard dick could provide.

With the washing machine churning beneath me I prepared myself for Bob's even more powerful churning. When he stabbed me again it was astonishingly easy to relax around his wonderful dick. This time when he sheathed his pink-steel in my ass, I greeted him with a loud coo of delighted welcome.

Once deeply seated he wasted no time. He commenced a vigorous thrusting of my fundament that forced me to give shrill murmurs of pleasure. I had occasion to witness him use a similar brutal macho-rhythm on his girlfriend's broad upturned ass. I freely admit to a similar display of eager panting glee as he used me like his girl. I giggled in amusement that I was making very much the same sounds as his girlfriend when he had fucked her. Our bodies slapping together had the same flesh smacking echo, his grunting of effort and my panting acceptance resonated with my memory of watching them and enhanced my yearning.

The more he banged away the less annoyed I was about his abrupt attempt at ambush and the more in I reveled in his fervent passion. I focused on the hot meat sliding in and out of me, exciting parts of me that longed to be touched. Bob's lusty grunting, my high-pitched whimpering and the smacking of hips on ass, all conspired to inflame my increasing need to be fully and forcefully fucked. The mounting pleasure that rubbed within attested that I had completely lost the will or sense to resist.

"Give me your dick like you mean it," I demanded, "Faster you beautiful bastard." As I looked back over my shoulder at Bob, whose face gleamed with sweat from his exertions, I offered him what I hoped was a sincere smile of encouragement. To emphasize my wishes, I purred his name devotedly while he bulled into me with staccato authority. He took his hands from my hips, all fear of my escape gone, and reached under my shirt to torment hard nipples. Squirming with panting delight I felt the spin cycle start, sending vibrations through my body and into Bob's.

My petite pecker, pressing against the cold white enamel, responded to Bob and the spin cycle with abrupt and continuous squirts of bliss that painted a lacy pattern on the side of the shaking appliance. I don't know if it was my body's orgasmic contraction around his dick or it was merely his time, but Bob found sweet remedy for his blue balls. He bellowed in triumph to announce his prideful victory over my ass. I instantly felt the lurch and jerk of his ejaculatory conquest. I writhed in bliss when his first hot spurts began spreading potent warmth within me.

We stood like that for some time, Bob leaning his comforting weight on me, his arms hugging my chest with proprietary strength, subsiding dick still tucked within me. I gave a petulant mew when inevitably my tight ass squeezed him out. Not only was I annoyed that he taught me to regret such emptiness, I was also annoyed to discover he had given me such a quantity of spunk from blue balls. White cream dripped down to pool on the linoleum in thick liquid testament to our endeavors.

"Look at the mess you made," I accused.

"It's your fault. Your squirming ass made me shoot so hard I think I ruptured my balls."

I pondered his comment for a moment. Decided it might be partly my fault after all. I tapped his thick encircling arms and he released me. I slid off the washer and turned to face him. Tilted my head to one side and gazed up at him. I smiled and said, "Gee, we don't want that, maybe I should kiss them and make them all better."