Lavish Didi Stories - Open Door

Author’s note: All characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the characters.

The door stayed unlocked.

I cleaned the mattress topper with a towel and left the stain. I put the lube back on the table. I didn’t shower. I wanted the first load where it was. I wanted the next one to find it.

At 7:41 I sat on the floor with my phone and opened the ad again. Same text. Open door. Couch. Ass out. Older welcome. I added a line because it was true now.

Already used once. Load still inside. Still open. Still unlocked.

The replies stacked. I ignored the novels. I opened the one with no novel at all.

From: ny.cap.88

Subject: still open

saw the update. 25. straight. not looking for a dude. looking for a hole. i can be there in 40 if the door’s really unlocked. no names. i don’t kiss. i don’t stay.

I typed with my thumb still wet.

Door’s unlocked. Same house. Couch facing the door. I’ll be on it. Blindfold on. You don’t have to talk.

The answer came while I was still on the floor.

From: ny.cap.88

40 min. i just got off a shift. i smell like work. not showering. if that’s a problem say so now.

also i’ve never fucked a guy. i’ve thought about it. that’s it. if i get there and i can’t i leave. don’t take it personal.

I wrote back.

Not a problem. Don’t shower. Door open. If you can’t, leave. If you can, use it. There’s already a load in me. Married guy. 44. Army. He was in and out. You can add to it or you can go.

Three dots. Then:

From: ny.cap.88

jesus

ok

that’s hot in a fucked up way

i’m in a gray yankees cap. black shorts. if somebody else is there i turn around.

I sat with that for a minute. Then I sent one more because I wanted him to know what he was walking into.

Living room is the first room. No hall. Lube on the table. Jockstraps on. You can use what’s already in me. You can add lube. You can leave the second you’re done. I won’t ask you to stay.

From: ny.cap.88

i work at a warehouse. i’m not a nice guy in bed. i talk shit. if that’s a problem say it.

also i’m hairy. chest. arms. if you wanted smooth you picked the wrong email.

I typed:

I didn’t want smooth.

He sent back a single letter.

k.

I put the phone face-down.

I pulled the blindfold back down over my eyes and left a gap at the bottom so the mirror view would still work. White jock. All fours. Ass toward the door. Face toward the glass. The first man’s cum had gone thinner and warmer. When I shifted I felt it move. The bottle was on the table again. The AC hummed. The cat tree watched nothing.

I waited.

At 8:19 the door opened.

No knock. Same as the first one. Different weight on the floor.

In the mirror, through the sliver under the blindfold, I saw the cap first. Gray. NY in black. Then the chest. He was walking already shirtless. Hair. A lot of it. Dark. Across the pecs and down the middle and on the arms. Tattoos on the left shoulder and down the arm — wing, leaves, something I couldn’t read from the couch. He had a fist up like he’d been about to knock and then remembered he didn’t have to. Blue thing in one ear, probably earbuds. Thin silver necklace. Black shorts already tented. Younger than the emails made him sound. Twenty-five and built like he lifted because he was bored, not because he was pretty. Soft in the middle a little. Real guy, not an insta model.

He shut the door with his heel.

He didn’t take the cap off.

He stood there and looked at me the way you look at a thing you drove across town for and now have to touch. His mouth was behind his hand for a second. Then the hand dropped.

“Exactly like the ad,” he said. Voice younger. Rougher than the emails. “Jesus. You’re actually like that.”

I didn’t answer. The ad said I didn’t have to.

He laughed once, under his breath, not nice.

“Alright. Alright. I’m not staying. I’m not talking after. I just—” He hooked his thumbs in the shorts and shoved them down. No belt show. No ceremony. His cock was already hard, thicker than the first man’s, not as long, cut. The hair at the base matched his chest. He kicked the shorts off one ankle and left them by the shoes. “You said there’s already somebody’s load in you.”

I nodded into the cushion.

“Show me.”

I reached back with two fingers and opened. In the mirror I watched his face change. The hungry look. The disgusted look. Both at once. He stepped closer. I felt his breath before I felt his hand. He put two fingers in me without asking and scooped. Warm. Slippery. The first load on his skin.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “That’s another guy’s cum. That’s a married guy’s cum and you’re holding it for me. That’s—” He wiped it on his cock. Used it. Stroked himself with another man’s load like lube. “That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve seen this year and I’m still going to fuck you.”

He picked up the bottle. Poured. The cold ran down over what was already there. He didn’t warm it. He put the bottle on my back the same way the first one had, like they’d read the same manual. Plastic. Heavy. I was a surface again.

He moved in.

The head of him was thicker. It stretched the sloppy rim and slid on the mess inside. He didn’t shove all at once. He pushed until the head popped in and then he stopped, breathing through his teeth, both hands on my hips.

“Tight. Still tight. How is it tight if somebody already dumped in you.” He pushed further. Inch. Inch. The smell of him arrived with his stomach against my ass — sweat from a shift, icy deodorant, skin, the faint rubber of the shorts he’d been wearing. Work heat. “Don’t you squeeze. Let me in. I didn’t drive over here to fight a hole.”

He bottomed out.

The bottle rolled and settled in the dip of my spine.

He stayed there. Full. Thicker than the army guy. I could feel the first load getting pushed around inside me, displaced, warm against the new stretch. I moaned into the fabric. In the mirror his cap brim cut his eyes. He was looking down at where we were joined, mouth open, the fist he’d had at his face now locked on my hip. The chest hair was damp. The necklace stuck to his sternum. The tattoos looked darker in the slat of light from the blinds.

He smelled like a warehouse. Cardboard. Sweat. A little diesel. The deodorant was something cheap from Walmart and it had lost hours ago. I breathed it because I had asked for it in writing.

“I’m in a dude,” he said. To himself. To the room. “I’m in a dude and it feels like— fuck. It feels good. Don’t you tell anybody I said that, I’m straight.”

Then he started moving.

Not the pneumatic anger of the first man. Slower at first, like he was checking if he was going to hate it. He didn’t hate it. Ten strokes in he sped up. The slap got wetter because of what was already in me. Lube and cum and the new cock making a sound the sofa had already learned.

“Take it. Just take it. I don’t know your name and I don’t want it. I want this.” He pulled my cheeks apart with his thumbs the same way the other one had. “Look at that. Used. Open. Holding another guy’s load while I add mine. You’re a dump. You’re what the ad said. I’m not kissing you. I’m not holding you. I’m going to fuck this and I’m going to fill it and I’m going to put my shorts on and go home and jerk off about it.”

I watched him in the glass.

Hairy chest bouncing. Cap on. Necklace swinging. The tattoos flexing when he gripped. The gap in the blindfold made it worse — half a man, half a shadow, all of it real. He smelled stronger the harder he went. Pit. Stomach. The heat of a body that hadn’t showered because I’d told him not to.

“You like that I didn’t shower,” he said. Not a question. “You put it in the email. Don’t shower. You wanted me rank. You wanted the shift still on me. That’s sick. That’s why I came. You’re not like the girls.”

He hooked an arm under my belly and hauled me back onto him. Every stroke punched the leftover cum deeper and dragged it out around his shaft. I felt it run down my balls onto the jock. I felt new heat building behind the old heat.

“I’m close and I haven’t even been here ten minutes. That’s embarrassing. That’s what this hole does. First time I put it in a guy and I’m already—” He growled. Young. Animal. Different from the range-sound the army guy made. This was a young dude who lifts and sweats and doesn’t know where to put it. “Don’t move. Don’t you clench to be cute. I’m dumping in you. I’m dumping on top of him. You’re going to walk around with two loads. You wanted that. Say it.”

I said it into the cushion.

“I wanted that.”

“Louder.”

“I wanted two. I wanted you on top of him.”

“Fuck.”

He hammered.

Short. Deep. The sofa legs scraped the same path they’d scraped at 7:04. The bottle jumped off my back and hit the floor. He didn’t pick it up. He planted a hand between my shoulders and fucked like the email had been a dare he was answering with his hips.

The sloppy sound got louder. Cum and lube working into foam at the rim. I could hear it every time he pulled back. I could feel the first man leaving room for the second. My arms shook. The blindfold gap showed me his stomach, the trail of hair, the cap, the mean concentration of a straight boy who had decided the hole was good enough to finish in and that finishing was the only thing that would let him put the shorts back on.

“Warehouse till six. Drove here with this thing hurting. Read your ad in the parking lot. Almost didn’t come in. Then I saw you on the couch like the picture in my head and I stopped being able to leave.” He slapped my ass once, sharp. “That’s for the email. That’s for saying don’t shower. You got what you asked for.”

“Gonna cum. Gonna cum in this sloppy thing. Take it. Take it you little cum dump—”

He slammed in and stayed, hips jerking, a broken noise punched out of him into the quiet house. I felt it. Thick. Hot. Adding. The first load and the second load meeting. He kept pumping through it like stopping would make him think about the cap still on his head and his girlfriend and the fact that he was twenty-five and inside a stranger on a stranger’s parents’ couch.

He pulled out slow.

I felt the empty. I felt the run. In the mirror he looked at what came out of me — white, mixed, his and the married man’s — and he made a face like he wanted to spit and like he wanted to put it back in.

He wiped his cock on the same towel. Brisk. Younger hands. He pulled the shorts up. Cap stayed. He didn’t put a shirt on because he hadn’t worn one in.

At the door he stopped.

“Don’t email me,” he said. “If the ad’s up tomorrow I might come back. If it’s not, this didn’t happen. I was never in this house. I don’t know what you look like without the blindfold. That’s how I need it.”

He opened the door.

The night came in. Streetlight. A car somewhere. He left with the cap pulled lower than when he’d arrived, like the brim could hide what he’d just done from the walk to the truck. The door didn’t slam as hard as the first one. It still didn’t lock.

I listened to his steps on the walk. I listened to an engine. I didn’t look at the window. The ad had said I wouldn’t.

The house went quiet except the AC and the drip of two men down the inside of my thigh onto the jock.

I reached back.

Mixed. Warm. More than before.

I stayed on all fours in the mirror with the gap in the blindfold and I used what they’d left. I didn’t last long. I came onto the topper again, shaking, two strangers’ loads on my fingers, the Yankees cap still burned into the glass even though the man was already gone.

I didn’t lock the door.

I opened the phone with a clean knuckle and typed under the ad.

“Two loads so far. Still unlocked. Still on the couch. If you’re straight and you need a hole and you don’t want to talk, the door’s open. I won’t look at your face. I can see you in the mirror anyway.”

I hit post.

The sent folder still had his lines. warehouse. not a nice guy in bed. i talk shit. i’m hairy. i’m in a dude. I locked the phone and put it under the table waiting for another email notification 

The AC hummed. Two loads cooled on the jock. The Yankees cap was gone and I could still see it in the glass if I wanted. I wanted. That was the whole problem with leaving the door unlocked. You don’t just get used. You keep the picture.

The emails sat in my sent folder like evidence.

still open

40 min. i just got off a shift

there’s already a load in me

jesus. ok. that’s hot in a fucked up way

I read them again on the floor with my ass leaking and thought about the fist at his mouth in the doorway and the way he’d said I’m in a dude like he was confessing to the cap.

I already knew which reply I was going to open next.

Not the novels. The short ones. The ones that said k. The ones that smelled like a shift and a cap and a man who would use what was already in me and call it the most fucked up thing he’d seen all year and still not lock the door on the way out.