A Quiet Night In

I opened the door a few seconds ago, not expecting a visitor. Grinning in front of me was someone dressed exactly how one would expect a plumber would, wearing canvas coveralls, a crushed denim cap, and carrying a nylon bag heavy with equipment. His leather boots were the cleanest thing on his body, and I swore that I could smell a hint of fresh shoe polish. He had knocked only moments ago the way he had done to thousands of front doors, confident and polite, except the smile dropped from his face as soon he saw mine.

"W-wrong apartment, sir." he stuttered as he fumbled to tip his cap at me.

"Oh no worries," I said through a cheery smile. "Which apartment number are you looking for?"

He croaked out some other form of apology, inaudible to my ears as he snapped around to retreat back down the hallway. I felt bad for the middle-aged gentleman, sympathizing with the eternal struggle of trying to avoid any social faux pas, only to fail.

"Have a good night!" I said as he silently hurried away.

The door hinges squeaked as they swung shut, and the realization clicked at the same time as the deadbolt: why was a plumber in my complex at one in the morning? The paranoia of a possible intruder was luckily alleviated by remembering that plumbers do often make emergency calls for nasty leaks, and maybe it was for a friend or someone in need.

Whatever the reason, I was more concerned about the booze in my cabinet that wasn't being drunk. It had been a long night on the line at work, and whipping out more perfectly cooked steaks in one night than I ever have before felt like a meager accomplishment compared to getting through the damn shift in the first place. The foliage tourists, or leaf-peepers as we called them in New England, were coming to the northeast in droves to see the same stupid leaves I had to rake off the deck as a teenager, and work had been slammed for the past two weeks straight because of it. My only day off in those two weeks had been to celebrate my 21st birthday, and I was still working on the suite of liquor bottles I had received as gifts.

My bathrobe fell open as I bent down to pick a gin bottle up off the kitchen floor, and I was surprised by the chill that I felt in the October air. The window had been left open since I moved in last month since my shitty apartment didn't have A/C, but now that it was getting colder I kept forgetting to close it at night. I lowered the sash and sat for a second staring at the complex parking lot, the only view I had from my two-room apartment. Next to my itty bitty compact car was a hulking van that looked like it had been through a battlefield, and on it was the phrase Jackson & Sons Plumbing. I chuckled as I thought about the poor confused late night plumber and turned away from the window. I shrugged off my robe as I walked back to the gin to make a classic G & T and unwind in front of my laptop.

An hour and 3 drinks later and I was right where I needed to be. I was starting to get bored, but I wasn't tired enough to sleep yet. As always, I opened my trusty folder of porn bookmarks and grabbed an old musky pair of boxers from my laundry pile to use as a cumrag. I'm uncut so I didn't need that much lube to begin with, plus I had the added bonus of being able to leak precum like it was my job. I settled onto my desk chair and opened a favorite video involving two hung convicts and a bunk bed being used as a gloryhole.

I felt the hood of my foreskin already slowly rolling back on its own as my cock swelled up to its full size. I placed my hand around the hefty girth of my modestly long shaft and felt it twitch in my hands. A heavy drop of dick honey started rolling down my knuckles as I realized that I hadn't even jacked off yet this week. That meant that I would probably only last about five minutes with how sensitive I would be, yet the reward would be a cumshot that felt like it was half a gallon of jizz coming out at once. Just as the wave started to rise in me and I could feel a cumshot big enough to fill Lake Champlain brewing deep in my balls, there was another knock on the door, firm yet un-intrusive. Normally I would've frozen in confusion, but the great thing about three mixed drinks in a row is you don't have the capacity for sitting around confused, only the capacity for doing something about it. I schlepped the long journey into the next room and started concocting increasingly funny ways to tell the doorknocker to fuck off as I reached for the knob.

I swung the door open to see the same plumber as before, this time with a determined look on his face. He rather strangely said nothing, only looked me up and down. My cocky sneer dropped off my face faster than a rock as I remembered that my robe was still on the chair in my bedroom where I left it. My body temperature plummeted and I immediately started apologizing five different ways at once. Now it was my turn to be embarrassed, and I shakily reached to close the door in shame when he held up a single finger to silence me.

Without hesitation I shut up, froze, and took the time to assess what was in front of me: a silent man taller than my already tall frame and about twice as wide. He wore thick fabric utility gloves, possibly to prevent fingerprints on the body. The black coveralls, possibly to hide bloodstains, were stretched snugly over his bulging arms, legs, and belly, showing me that he could easily overpower me with his weight. His thick beard and matching brows hid his features well, possibly leaving his complexion a mystery to witnesses.

Then I became conscious of myself as well. I was standing there in the doorway, wearing nothing but the stainless steel chain around my neck. I was tall, but I didn't have nearly the bulk of the plumber. My whole body had probably the same amount of hair as he did on his left ankle, judging from his facial hair and what I could see of his bare chest peeking through his coveralls. I felt emasculated in his presence, and he hadn't said more than three words to me total. Even worse, I realized I still had a rope of precum hanging from the tip of my quickly softening dick.

Wordlessly, as if it had been rehearsed, he took his raised finger and started to reach downwards. My brain was screaming every code word it knew for emergency at me, but the gin was getting in the way of my starting to run away from the mysterious intruder. I watched in horror as he continued to slowly move his arm towards my crotch, almost tantalizing me with its un-hurriedness. Then, he gently scooped up the drop of honey swinging between my trembling legs with his gloved finger and, again with the pace of a man who was enjoying himself, raised it and placed it on his tongue.

For the first time in my life, I was utterly speechless. My jaw flapped dumbly, attempting to form words, and he simply smiled at me, his deep chocolate eyes glittering from the light of the hallway sconces.

"Can I come in?" He asked after approximately three eternities had passed. He was still smiling, but in the same way he knocked on the door: confident, yet patient. The glitter in his eyes was warming my fear-riddled body, and as the warmth spread, it touched a part of me that was so, so hungry. I stepped aside and let him in, and he politely negotiated the doorway that was too narrow for his broad trunk. As he turned slightly to enter, the taut material of his coveralls exposed the curves of his musculature buried under a hearty layer of soft fat.

I didn't know who this man was, but the rural area I grew up in showed me that using your face isn't often common practice amongst country boy dating profiles, so he likely recognized my face from the selfie I would use on my account. To be honest, I didn't care if he had been stalking me for months. I didn't have time to be confused; I only had time to do something about it. I needed to feel his strong hands caress the delicate flesh of my hips. I needed to feel his weight on top of me. I needed to feel his beard brush against my cheek. I craved him.

I could taste the sex in the air, and I knew that we were going to have a lot of fun.