The Furniture Installer Who Stayed Late

A few months ago I finally bought my first apartment. After nearly a decade of paying rent that would never be mine, I managed to gather enough money to get myself a small but bright penthouse in a neighborhood I had wanted to live in for years. It had a little south-facing balcony, solid wood floors, and an odd silence for being so close to the center. It was mine, and no one was going to tell me how to paint it or where to hang the pictures.

Because I’m passionate about design and decorating, I treated it like a personal project. I spent weeks visiting stores, asking for quotes, comparing woods, measuring in centimeters with the tape measure in my hand. I enjoyed every step. I also enjoyed, I won’t lie, the occasional handsome sales assistant who showed me the sofa catalog with a professional smile. But that was as far as it went.

My type isn’t the hairless gym guy or the young waiter in the tight T-shirt. It never was. I like virile men, the ones with stubble and chest hair, the ones who look like they’ve spent their whole lives carrying heavy things. Those men hardly ever cross your path in furniture stores, and when they do, they almost never take an interest in someone like me. Or so I thought.

The sofa I chose came with a couple of extra modules that had to be assembled in the living room. The store included the assembly service, and we arranged for an afternoon when I had the day off. I ate something light, tidied up my brand-new kitchen, and sat on the living room floor with a book while I waited. It was almost six when the intercom rang.

Two men came upstairs. One was thin, spindly, with a face that looked like it hadn’t had enough sleep, and the other was one I remember perfectly from the very first second. Hernán — I learned his name later from the badge on his uniform — was in his mid-forties, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with a neatly trimmed goatee and a thick dark mane peeking out from the collar of his shirt. He had two buttons undone, and underneath you could make out a chest that was exactly the kind of chest that makes me lose my mind.

They brought the boxes up in two trips. There were a lot of parts. When they finished unloading everything into the living room, Hernán told the younger man to go back to the warehouse with the van, that he’d take care of the assembly and sort the rest out later. The guy didn’t protest. He closed the door behind him and suddenly the two of us were alone in my empty apartment.

Hernán opened a gym bag and, without warning, started undoing the buttons on his uniform shirt.

—Sorry —he said without looking at me—. Office dress code. For work I prefer something that can get dirty.

I nodded as if it had nothing to do with me, but I didn’t look away. The shirt fell onto the bag and revealed exactly what I had imagined: a broad, strong chest covered in thick black hair that ran down to his navel and disappeared after that beneath his belt. His arms were the same landscape. It took him a few seconds to put on an old tank top, and those seconds were enough for him to realize I was staring too hard. He didn’t say anything. He only lifted one eyebrow and carried on with what he was doing.

He started assembling the first module with a calmness that was almost annoying. I pretended I had things to do in the kitchen: opened drawers, organized spices that were already organized, filled a glass with water. In reality, the only thing I cared about was finding excuses to go back into the living room and watch him crouch, reach out, tense his back. Every time he stood up, the tank top rode up an inch and exposed a strip of dark, hairy skin at his waist.

—Do you like how the place is turning out? —I asked at one point, just to say something.

—Very much —he said—. You’ve got good taste. The only thing it’s missing is someone to enjoy it with.

He looked up from the screw he was tightening and gave me a crooked smile.

—I’m assuming your wife or girlfriend will be here in a bit to welcome you home —he added.

—No wife, no girlfriend —I replied—. It’s not something that’s keeping me up at night right now.

He went back to focusing on the screw, but this time he took an extra second before speaking. I turned toward the kitchen because I felt my face burning, and also because I had half a hard cock stuck to my thigh and didn’t want it showing through my thin tracksuit pants.

***

A while later he asked to use the bathroom. I pointed him down the hall. When he came back, I offered him something cold, a beer or a soda, whatever he preferred.

—Company policy says we’re not allowed to accept invitations —he said—. But since they also don’t let us use the customer’s bathroom and I’ve already done that… I suppose breaking the rules twice doesn’t matter.

—I’m not going to tell on you —I replied.

And I winked at him with an innocence that fooled no one. Really, I was thinking that if he wanted to break the rules in another way, I wouldn’t say a word about that either.

We stayed in the kitchen, facing each other, separated by a couple of meters of tile. He drank in short sips. I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

—Laser hair removal clinics would make a killing with you —I blurted out, without thinking too much.

He let out a short laugh and looked at his arm.

—I’ve thought about it before —he admitted—. But I don’t know how I’d feel going hairless all of a sudden. I’ve been like this since I was fifteen. It’d be like shaving my head. Besides, you look fine like that. Not everyone has to go around like bears.

—I pluck the four hairs that grow on my chest with tweezers —I said, shrugging—. Sometimes I’ve thought I would’ve liked to have more, honestly.

—You don’t need them. You look good like that.

We went quiet. He took another sip of beer. I didn’t dare look him in the eyes.

—I suppose you have a lot of success with women —I said at last, because the silence was becoming unbearable.

—Magazine-cover guys are more in these days —he replied—. But other kinds of people like men like me. And I’ll tell you something: I think you’re one of them.

He came closer slowly, without rushing, as if measuring every step. He took my right hand with a gentleness that didn’t match his thick fingers and placed it over the center of his chest. The T-shirt was thin and I could feel the hair beneath it, dense, warm. I didn’t pull my hand away. He didn’t either.

—Am I doing okay? —he asked quietly.

—You’re perfect.

I slid my hand up to his neck and the other circled his waist. He leaned in and kissed me on the mouth in a way that left me breathless. He slipped his whole tongue in, hot, and started playing with mine as if he’d been rehearsing it mentally for hours. He sucked on my lower lip, bit it slowly, and meanwhile one of his hands slid down my back to get inside my tracksuit bottoms and grab one of my ass cheeks in full. He squeezed hard. No one had kissed me in months, and certainly no one had ever kissed me with that mix of restrained strength and patience.

—I’ve been looking at your ass since I brought the boxes up —he whispered against my mouth—. In those tracksuit pants, everything shows.

—Then keep looking —I told him, pressing myself against him.

I felt his hard cock against my hip, thick even through two layers of fabric, and a stupid little gasp escaped me against his beard.

***

I yanked his T-shirt off. I ran my hands over his whole torso, his shoulders, his back. The hair was exactly as I had imagined: thick, soft in some places, rougher in others, alive. I tangled my fingers in the hair on his chest, pulled a little, and he let out a low growl that went straight between my legs. Meanwhile, he slipped his hands under my T-shirt and stroked the bare skin of my chest and back. It was a strange contrast, his hairy hand against my hairless skin, and I liked that difference as much as I liked his chest.

He took off my T-shirt and bent down to gently bite my left nipple. He sucked it, licked it in circles, and then sank his teeth in just enough to make my whole body tremble. He switched to the other one and repeated it, harder this time. He worked his way down my side with licks, up my neck, bit my earlobe, and came back to my mouth. By then my breathing was ragged and my cock was rock hard inside my pants, soaking the fabric of my underwear. I grabbed his ass cheeks with both hands and pressed him against me. His was in the same state, and from the bulge in his jeans I knew we were going to get very well served.

—Let’s see what you’re hiding in there —I said, squeezing his crotch over his pants.

—The same as you, but a bit bigger —he said, half laughing, half panting.

He pulled down my tracksuit pants and underwear with one movement. My erection sprang out into the air all at once, red, the head shiny with liquid. He stepped back, looked at it without hiding anything, and smiled.

—So that’s what you were keeping hidden.

He ran an open hand over my cock, not squeezing, just feeling it. Then he gripped the base hard with those thick fingers and gave it a slow shake two or three times. A drop escaped me and slid down to his knuckles. He brought it to his mouth and sucked it without taking his eyes off me.

—Salty. Good.

I met his gaze and unbuckled his belt with clumsy fingers. His jeans hit the floor. I bent down for his underwear, pulled it down slowly, and saw it for the first time: thick, circumcised, dark at the base, with a dense cluster of black hair around it and a pair of heavy balls hanging beneath, clearly bigger than mine. I estimated a good twenty centimeters, and a thickness that made me swallow hard. It was pressed against his navel, taut, with a vein running along the shaft. I didn’t think. I kissed the head first, then ran my tongue from his balls to the tip, very slowly, and only then opened my mouth and took him in all at once as far as I could. He hit the back of my throat immediately, gag and all, but I didn’t let go. I stayed there for a second, swallowing, breathing through my nose, and then started sucking him with a dedication that even surprised me.

I sucked him hard, my lips tight, pulling him out to the head and taking him all the way back in again. I made a wet, obscene sound that filled the kitchen. I stroked his balls with one hand and gripped the base with the other to control how much I took in. His goatee tickled my face every time he leaned in to look at me. He found it hard to stay still. He put a hand on the back of my neck, not pushing, just guiding. Every so often I pulled his cock all the way out and sucked each ball one by one, taking them into my mouth, tugging at the hair at his pubis with my lips. Then I went back to the head, licked the slit, pressed my tongue against the underside of the crown.

—Fuck, you suck cock like a dream —he murmured, voice broken—. You’re giving me one hell of a mouth.

I answered by taking him in again, all the way to the back, with my hands planted on his hairy thighs. I felt a tremor in his quadriceps.

—Stop —he said after a while, gently pulling my hair back—. Stop or I’m going to cum standing up and nothing’s even started yet.

I let his cock go with a wet pop. It shone all over, dripping with my saliva, pulsing on its own.

***

He told me to lie down on the floor. The parquet was cool but not cold; it was July and the afternoon was still sweltering. He lay on top of me with all his weight on mine. Feeling that chest against my chest, skin on skin, hair on skin, was one of the most tangible sensations of pleasure I can remember. It was comforting and horny at the same time, like being at home and completely outside myself all at once. His hard cock, wet with my saliva, got trapped between our bellies and he started moving up and down, rubbing his against mine. The friction of the two cocks, his twice as thick as mine, sliding in both our precum, nearly made me cum right there.

He lowered his body. His face reached my cock and he took it all into his mouth without warning. His goatee brushed my groin, his tongue was hot, he knew exactly what he was doing. He sucked me with hunger, bobbing his head, squeezing my balls with one hand and pinching my nipple with the other. When he’d soaked me well enough, he pulled my cock out of his mouth and pressed it against my stomach to lick me from the balls downward, very slowly, searching for my perineum. I held out as long as I could.

—Now you stop —I told him—. If you don’t, I’m warning you, this is over in thirty seconds.

He lifted his head, smiled at me, and grabbed me beneath the knees. He folded my legs up, spread my ass cheeks wide with both hands, and licked slowly between them. He stayed like that for a good while, patiently, giving me long flat licks first, then pressing the tip of his tongue right against the hole, pushing, going in and out. He ate my ass like his life depended on it. His goatee scraped my cheeks, his tongue moistened me inside, and every so often he slid up a finger, soaked it in saliva, and pushed it into me to the knuckle. One first, then two. He opened me up inside, probing, while continuing to lick around his own fingers.

—What a delicious ass you’ve got, fuck —he said between licks—. I’m going to fuck it so well you’ll forget your own name.

I had closed my eyes. I knew perfectly well what was coming and, for once, I didn’t want to think about anything else. Short gasps kept escaping me every time he twisted his finger inside me and hit a spot that made my back arch.

—Wait —I told him, half sitting up—. I’ve got something close by.

I crawled two steps to a kitchen drawer where, ridiculously, I kept a box of unopened condoms from the move. It wasn’t the right place, but it was the first empty drawer I’d found the day I emptied the bags. I took one out and tossed it to him, along with a little bottle of lube that had also ended up there by accident. He opened it with his teeth and put it on with such ease that it didn’t speak very well of his company-rule compliance, but it worked wonderfully for me. He poured lubricant into his palm, smeared the wrapped cock from top to bottom with slow strokes, and pushed another finger, now covered in it, into my ass to get me ready.

—Loosen up there for me —he asked, while opening me with three fingers—. I want it to fit all the way in.

I lay back down on my back. He positioned himself on top of me, lifted my legs again, and rested them on his shoulders. He set the head against my hole and started pushing slowly. He went carefully, which I appreciated a lot, because his size commanded respect. I felt myself opening little by little, first the crown, then the first part of the shaft. It didn’t hurt. It burned for a moment, yes, that good burn of being stretched to the limit. It took me a couple of minutes to open all the way, and from there on it was only pleasure. When he was all the way in, he waited. He looked me in the eyes and asked without words whether I was okay. I told him yes without words too, with one hand on the back of his neck.

He started moving slowly, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in until his balls hit home. I felt each thrust in my stomach. Then he picked up the rhythm, holding my hips to drag me toward his cock while he drove in. The sound of his thighs slapping against my ass echoed in the empty living room. I clung to whatever I could, his forearms, the hair on his chest, the floor.

—So good —I told him, not recognizing my own voice—. Put all of it in, don’t stop.

—I’m putting it all in, don’t worry —he panted—. That’s what you got me this hard for.

We changed positions. He made me turn over and get on all fours on the parquet. He positioned himself behind me, grabbed my ass cheeks with both hands, and drove into me in one thrust, this time without hesitation. The position changed everything: he got in deeper, hit a spot that made white dots appear in my vision. He hammered me hard, giving me occasional slaps on the ass, pulling my hair back so I’d arch my back. My cock hung between my legs, dripping precum onto the floor, bouncing with every thrust.

—Tell me you like it —he demanded, without slowing down.

—I fucking love it, don’t stop —I answered between moans—. Fuck me harder.

—Hard like this, like this? —and he drove in to the hilt, making me cry out.

Then he leaned over me, slid one arm across my chest to pull me up, and we ended up almost both on our knees, him pressed against my back, still thrusting from below. I had his chest flattened against my back again. That hair, the beard against my cheek, his weight, the smell of clean sweat and cheap pharmacy cologne. I would have thanked him for being born. He nibbled at my neck, whispered filthy things in my ear, told me how tight I was, how good my ass was at taking his cock, how much he liked the way I received it.

—You’ve got my cock fitting like a glove —he murmured—. You’re going to finish me off.

When he realized I wasn’t going to last much longer, he laid me back on my back, folded my knees against my chest, and started fucking me again while looking me in the face. He grabbed my cock with his big hand, still slick with lube, and started jerking me off to the same rhythm as his thrusts. He stroked me hard, twisting his hand over my head every time he came up. With his other hand he stroked my chest, pinched my nipples, squeezed my throat without hurting me.

—Come for me —he ordered—. I want to see your face.

I came all over my own chest in a brutal, almost spurting burst. Four or five thick ropes shot out, reaching my chin, some of them even getting into the hair of his beard. My whole body seized up, my ass clenched around his cock, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. He drove in twice more, all the way, and came inside with a muffled grunt, never taking his eyes off me. I felt the pulses through the condom, one after another, and his face turned red and tense and beautiful all at once.

He stayed on top of me for a while, catching his breath, his cock still inside, giving me slow kisses on the mouth, on the chin, licking my own semen off my lips without the slightest hesitation. Then he came out carefully, took off the condom, tied it off, and set it aside. He helped me get up from the floor — my legs were like jelly — and we went into the shower together in my brand-new bathroom, where the warm water carried two very different kinds of sweat down the same drain. Under the spray he hugged me from behind, got me hard again just by soaping my ass, and we spent a good while playing with our hands, not going all the way again, just to prolong the afternoon a little longer.

***

As you can imagine, that afternoon didn’t end with the assembly. The modules were left half-built in the living room. He needed two more afternoons to finish the job. Each one of those two afternoons had its corresponding “break,” each one longer, each one less defensible in front of his bosses.

Today I’m writing this on the sofa he finally finished assembling late on the third day. Hernán is on the other side, barefoot, reading, with his chest bare because he still runs hot even in May. He’s been living here for almost a year now. The box of condoms is still in the kitchen drawer, now out of habit.