Lion's Lair - 9. Will This Day Never End?

“You’re almost here, Ryan. The house is on the right, the mailbox has lighted numbers. I’ll turn on the driveway lights and open the garage door.”

Driving around, lost. Been to this subdivision before, when Clayton took me on our first date—but that was at night, and I wasn’t really paying attention to where we were. Seen signs directing me to the dock from that night, but that’s not helping me now.

Suddenly see the “mailbox” and it looks nothing like the typical black box on a post. Instead, there’s a graceful arc of polished stainless steel that arcs maybe 5 feet from its base. The flattened tube swells at the end to make a receptacle for the mail. Numbers underneath glow softly. The stainless steel reflects the trees and natural landscape and blends in to the surrounding; no wonder I’d missed it.

Slowing to turn in the blacktop drive lights up. Indirect lighting on the sides makes it look like an airport runway from overhead. But it leads to what appears to be a vacant lot. Where’s the house?

Looking down the winding drive a shaft of light appears otherworldly. The shaft appears as a flat beam along the far edge of the drive then grows larger. Clayton has opened the garage door, and the garage’s interior is visible.

No wonder I didn’t see the house—all the buildings are mirrored glass. What are all of these buildings?

Pull up into the garage. Clayton’s Mercedes is on the far right. His restored Thunderbird is on the far left. Since the center is open, I nudge the Cadillac into the open spot.

Get out and into the chair just as Clayton walks into the garage from a side door. “Glad you’re here, Ryan, come on in, I’ll show ya around to get ya comfortable, then dinner.” A quick welcoming kiss helps put the ups and downs of this Wednesday more in their place. I’ll never forget the high of walking on those artificial legs, but the realization of a still frustrating road ahead puts a real downer on the entire day.

Suck it up and move on.

Clayton’s garage is organized beyond belief—and desperately clean. Hell, the floors here are cleaner than my apartment’s plus they’re tiled. I mention it to Clayton. “My car dealer in California had the same thing. He’d found it on a tour in Italy. The tiles are glazed with a finish that allows oils and chemical spills to bead, and they have a texture so they’re non-slip. Easy to keep.”

The walls are covered in pegboard, with all his tools, other than some that are on a rolling tool cart, to be hung in their proper place. The outline of each tool on the pegboard shows where every tool goes. “Another trick I’d picked up from a mechanic buddy years ago. Really makes the work go faster when you can put your hands on the right tool.”

Clayton waves me over to his T-bird. Damn if it doesn’t look like it rolled off the showroom floor. Dark forest green, with a dark green alligator grain vinyl roof, Clayton opens the back passenger’s suicide door to reveal a biscuit-pleated button-tufted interior of a silky looking cloth. “It’s actually a knitted nylon, and was commonly called ‘panty cloth’. Thankfully, the interior is original, and all I had to do was have the driver’s bucket seat re-padded. The little old lady that owned it took great care of it inside, but the foam rubber underneath the driver’s seat had deteriorated, but that was a relatively easy fix.”

He pops the hood, motions me to the front. “Listen to this.” Clayton cranks the car, and the huge engine settles into a quiet rhythm. He guns the engine a little, and although the volume increases, it still sounds mechanically perfect with a turbine-like smoothness.

“It’s a 429 cubic-inch engine. Rebuilt it since the car had been parked for a long time, and the engine had seized. Same with the transmission.”

A 429? That’s a 7-liter engine. This thing has got to be fast.

“It’s a real cruiser with tons of easy power. Loves to run, but never met a gas station it didn’t like. And filling up the 30-gallon tank with premium, plus the additives you have to use to make the gas like original is almost like taking out a second mortgage.” Clayton’s easy smile shows he really doesn’t mind fill-ups. “We’ll go out riding one Sunday afternoon—think you’d get a kick out of it.” He’s proud of his baby.

“Come on in, let’s have something to drink, and I’ll start the pasta.” Clayton leads the way through the door, and we’re in a ten-foot-wide screened breezeway going to another mirrored building. Indirect lighting is subtle, but effectively and evenly lights the way.

Inside, we go past a couple of rooms with open doors. On the right is a large utility room, with washer and dryer, as well as a chest freezer visible. You can hear a low whisper from the ventilation system. On the left is a larger room with racks of batteries, and a glowing control panel. “That’s for the solar system; I’ll explain later.”

The hallway opens to a great room maybe 15 feet high. A huge original art work is on the one solid wall in the room—two glass walls run from floor to ceiling, bringing the outside in. A low console sits on top of light hardwood floors in front of one of the glass walls. The biggest flat screen TV ever seemingly levitates above the console, supported by polished reflective posts with curved edges from the back of the console.

The console is opposite a huge oxblood red leather blocky-style sofa with 4 club chairs in navy leather, two chairs on either side of the square glass table in front of the sofa. The great room opens to a dining area with seating for eight around the sandblasted glass top that’s glowing from a contemporary chandelier. Beyond the dining area is an open kitchen with white cabinets and light beige granite countertops. A contemporary glass vent hood is over a six-burner stainless steel range. A big-ass glass and stainless steel door refrigerator is off to one side. And a door off to the far side opens up to the master bedroom.

The effect is simple, but the finishes are luxurious and the colors are natural. With the glass walls overlooking the lot and the bayou, it’s an easy, relaxed place.

“Come join me in the kitchen. Dinner won’t take but a few minutes to fix.” Clayton waves me over toward the kitchen and proceeds to pour me a glass of wine as I lever into a barstool in front of a countertop with inset sink. “I hope you’ll like this,” as he puts the wine in front of the seat.

If I had legs, getting into the barstool would be nothing.

The wine is delicious.

True to his word, he brings out plates of salad, offers a variety dressings. I take what he’s having, his “special” homemade vinaigrette. Fresh breadsticks come out of the oven. “We can do the salad while the pasta cooks,” as he puts the pasta into a big pot next to a smaller saucepan.

Clayton sits at the barstool next to me, tries to do small talk, but I’m really not in the mood. It’s not his fault I’ve had such an up/down day, but can’t shake this funk.

“Pasta should be ready.” He clears our now empty salad plates, drains the pasta, and puts some kind of lumpy cream sauce on the pasta, grating from a slab of cheese over each plate. “Shrimp and crab alfredo fettuccini with parmesan. Pepper?” When I nod, he grinds the peppermill over each plate, then serves it, following up with more hot breadsticks from the oven.

More small talk. The meal is great—and I tell him so—and he beams. “It’s a simple meal, but I’m glad you liked it.” More chat. Clayton quickly rinses the now empty dishes in the sink, and loads ‘em in the dishwasher.

“How about something to drink after dinner? Would you like a beer? Mixed drink? Wine?” Clayton’s question snaps me back from whatever zone I’m in and brings my focus back to him.

“Beer is fine.”

He retrieves the beer from the fridge, mixes a drink for himself, then motions to the sofa. “I’d just gotten out of the shower before you arrived, so didn’t have a chance to re-arrange this stuff,” he says, waiving to the sofa and chairs. “Just a second.”

He quickly moves to a chair closest to the sofa and moves it out of the way. “Now, that’ll make things easier. Come on, let’s go to the sofa and relax. We can watch a movie if you’d like.”

Roll over to the sofa, and hoist myself over to it, leaving my chair in place. Grab my beer, then lean back and relax. Clayton joins me on the sofa.

“Ok, spill it, Ryan. What’s going on? You’ve not said ten words since you’ve been here.”

The man has instincts, gotta give him credit.

Debated about telling him or not about the highs—and the lows--of the day, and decided to dive in. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve filled him in, and he’s just held my hand and murmured something at appropriate times to help me continue with my story.

By the time the day’s story was recounted it was all I could do to keep from crying, especially when I talked about having to give up the legs after the trial run and not being able to be fitted for quite some time—but I didn’t cry in front of him. Never cried in front of anyone before.

Can’t start now.

“Aw, Ryan. I’m so sorry ….” He grabs me, pulls me in for a hug. “It’s ok, we’ll work through this together. I’m here for you, don’t let it get to you.”

And I’m feeling a little better. Just like that.

He holds me for a minute, and it feels damn good, not saying anything, just … holding.

After a few minutes of being hugged up, I pull up off his shoulder, and lean in for a kiss. Not a chaste kiss by any means—my hunger for him explodes.

Clayton kisses back, every bit as full of fire, matching my flames. The make out session starts in earnest on the sofa, and shirts are off in moments. My dick is throbbing in my pants and I can feel Clayton’s cock swelling against my thigh. His hot kisses and hands roving across my back and butt have me charged up strong.

Nibbling on his ears, down his neck, I smell a light cologne. His fingers on my back, now damp from the sweaty attention I’m giving his neck and now chest, gently trace up and down my spine, tingles inciting me on to more.

Stop! This isn’t the way you’d planned it—and it’s probably not the way Clayton planned it either.

No stopping at this point; I’m into the buzz of pent-up hormones, as well as the frustration release of the day. Clayton’s responding to it all, maybe trying to slow things down, but I’m a steamroller over his measured responses.

I need this connection.

Lying side by side on the sofa, his gentle kisses on my neck trail down my chest until he finds my right nipple. Sucking/licking/kissing/nibbling on it sends an electric charge to my dick that’s now pulsing in my pants, threatening to shred its way through the fabric and I’m breathless. All the while, one hand running along my side, the other hand gently feeling my chest and shrapnel scars before finding the other nipple to toy with.

Who knew my tits would be sensitive like that? Never have been before….

Clayton pulls up, looks me squarely in the eyes with his handsome smiling face. “If we’re doing this, let’s get a little more comfortable, ok?” He sits up, throws an arm around my back, and casually moves me to the chair. The fucker’s stronger than I’d expected; he made that easy.

Leaning in for a kiss, he waves to the door to the bedroom. “C’mon.” Seconds later, I’m beside his bed, reach up, grab him by the belt on his khaki shorts, pull him in for a sizzling kiss, and use my hands to fumble with his belt.

Shorts down around his ankles, he ditches the boxers he has on, and moves to me. His cock is chubbed up nicely, balls hanging low as he again puts an arm around my back and places me sitting up on his bed. “I’m not gonna be the only one naked here,” he smiles.

He has my shorts and underwear off in one fell movement and piles in on top of me, back to the wet tongue working on my chest and moving down toward my cock standing hard, begging for attention.

His mouth works its way around my belly—what’s that sound?--and frustratingly, moves past my dick, as he maneuvers down onto my left thigh.

Every few kisses, licks, sucks Clayton is breathlessly whispering something. I finally make it out. “Beautiful … just beautiful.”

He continues down toward the end of my thigh. His kisses grow firmer.

“Beautiful … just beautiful.”

Stop! He’s gonna kiss my nub’s scars!

“Beautiful … just beautiful.” His mantra continues as he moves toward the ends of my nub, caressing my thighs with each hand as his mouth moves over the nasty scar tissue.

I gotta stop this!

“Beautiful … just beautiful.” Got my hands in his thick hair, and start to move his head away, but his hands grab my wrists. He holds me in place as he continues to lick/suck/nibble, and his chant repeats as his hot mouth works over the ends of my missing leg.

He moves to the other scarred stump, firm kisses and sloppy licks continue until he’s satisfied, never losing the words of praise. After a few minutes, he moves up the thigh on that leg, then licks the junction of my thigh and crotch, a hot wet tongue sideswiping my balls. Finally, blessedly, he takes the head of my dick in his mouth, swirls his tongue around it a couple of times, and swallows me down whole.

How’d he do that? I’m more than a mouthful, and he made it graceful ….

He starts a gentle pumping action with his mouth as he works a spit-slick finger up between my butt cheeks. My widespread legs let him find my hole easily, and he gently rubs a circle around it—and yeah, I’m moaning out loud.

Rub his head, his pumping mouth continues. “Let me suck you, too.”

He somehow swings around, never taking his mouth off my cock or his finger out of my ass. His nicely-sized cock seems born to fit my mouth. It’s firm, but not hard, and he’s got the clean arousing smell that sex sweat gives.

He’s been focused on you, that’s why he’s not hard. Get to work, Marine.

I suck him in, moving my tongue around, varying the pressure. Suck slow, then faster, then slow again. I really wanna tease him like he’s doing me—if you can call the damn-near relentless work he’s doing on my cock a tease. Hell, I’m about to explode.

He’s still a mouthful, but not really hard. I gotta do better.

I really want him to fuck me.

Work some more on his dick, my own is so hard it’s about to split, and all it’ll take is just a little more from him and …..

I spit his dick out, and manage to get the words out. “Fuck me, Clayton.”

For the first time, he pauses, pulls off my cock, looks up along the length of our 69-ed bodies, winks, and goes back to sucking. This time, he’s worked another finger into my ass and he’s massaging my taint with his thumb while the pumping fingers in my hole continue. His other hand has made a cockring around my dick with his thumb and first finger, and his almost closed fist is gently massaging my balls, and shit, I’m almost there.

“Oh, fuck, goddamn I’m gonna cum!”

Not yet, not yet, no, please, not yet.

I explode as Clayton sucks me as deep as he can, pumping his mouth up and down as my cock empties in his mouth, the rhythm of his mouth eventually matching the pulsing of my dick. Finally, it stops, he pulls off, swings around, and props up on one elbow above me. I can taste myself in his kiss, as he stretches beside me.

Maybe the best orgasm of my life. I’m feeling relaxed, secure with this guy, almost at peace, about to pass out from the intensity of it all.

But Clayton didn’t get off. Hell, he never really got that hard.

What’d I do wrong? He really isn’t into me ….

Yeah, it’s been a fucked-up Wednesday. Will this day never end?