– A Horny Short –

One of the swiftest ways to a toe-curling orgasm is the strategic placement of a pool jet. Brandon discovered this at a fairly young age, but had frustratingly few opportunities to fully explore this, neither having a pool nor any privacy whilst in one. At the time he made this discovery, he was about ten and in his aunt’s above ground pool, having found himself abandoned by his cousins for a moment. He wasn’t quite tall enough to fully line things up unless he rested his elbows on the plastic rim at the pool’s edge and suspended himself, shoulders hunched. This proved to be both uncomfortable and also strange looking, and it would only be a matter of time before someone returned and asked—or worse, deduced—what he was doing.

After that he found he could replicate the sensation in his parents’ jetted master bath tub. This was also not straightforward. His parents themselves rarely, if ever, used it, having installed it at the height of the jacuzzi craze only to wonder along with everyone else what they were thinking. And so Brandon either had to feign an injury, like a pulled muscle or wrenched back to justify its use, or wait for the rare times he was home alone for a long enough stretch of time. Summer was best for this. But there were drawbacks. One had to lay at an awkward angle to achieve the best sensations, and the churning bath water would make his face alarmingly hot as he had to hold his head just at the water line. If he was doing this in secret, he also had to go through the motion of wiping down the large bowl-shaped tub afterwards, ensuring it was spotless and bone dry, lest his parents notice something awry.

So when, just out of college, Brandon and some friends went in on a beach house together for a week in the Outer Banks, he knew he would need some alone time in the pool. It took three days into their one week stay for the situation to present itself. Generally, the crew hung out at the beach by day and the pool by night. And in spite of Brandon always enjoying beach vacations, there was only so much actual beach basking he could stand. Sitting for hours, baking beneath a pitifully undersized umbrella sapped the life out of him. This particular morning was already stiflingly hot, so as his friends packed their coolers and shook the sand from their towels to ready them for their next dose, Brandon made his excuses and saw them off.

It was blissfully quiet on the pool deck. Normally a place of raucous laughter and music, the surround was still except for the gentle hum of the filtration system. Brandon walked the perimeter before selecting a strategic spot to set his towel on the edge—just above the jet closest the stairs. He kicked his flip flops onto the sizzling concrete and peeled his t-shirt off, flinging it onto a lounge chair. He wasn’t even sure he would bother with sunscreen. He probably wasn’t going to be in the pool long enough.

He stepped into the water, noting with pleasure that the relentless sun over the last few days had warmed it significantly, and he needed no acclimation to immerse to his neck. He decided to do a single lap around the kidney-shaped pool, almost like foreplay considering he was hard just having the pool to himself. But when he had just reached the jet and prepared to assume the position, the pool deck gate clicked open behind him. Brandon turned in irritation, preparing to face a housemate who had left a pair of sunglasses behind, or worse, decided to also stay home for the morning. But instead, his eyes met a tall, tanned, muscular man in his early twenties walk into the backyard carrying a weed whacker.

He had the look of a guy who spent his entire summer doing manual labor without a care for sunscreen. A loose white tank top exposed bronze sinewy arms. He is wavy, disheveled hair was bleached to a golden ash that contrasted with his thick, dark eyebrows. He wore red lifeguard shorts and black calf-length socks inside white Huk deck boots. His sunglasses bobbed in a brief nod of acknowledgement of Brandon as he pulled a corded straw hat over his head and moved toward the overgrown patches of sea oats that grew in tufts beyond the lounge chairs. His deck boots thudded softly on the hot cement as he walked by.

Brandon struggled within himself. Did he take in the scene, watch the show, and have a grand finale when the guy left? Or did he dare mount the pool jet now? The landscaper was already tearing at the two-cycle pull string and adjusting the choke. The glorious serenity of the backyard was immediately usurped by the obnoxious sounds that only a puttering gas motor and nylon string moving at high velocity through foliage can produce. Yet Brandon was not vexed. As he watched the Adonis pivot the trimmer back and forth through the thick blades of grass, he noticed how the man’s right deck boot heel left the ground, rocking with his movements. It was then that the most delicious thought occurred to Brandon—that he could stand before the pool jet and enjoy the view together, because even if this man happened to notice and figure out what he was doing, he would never see him again in his life. His cock grew even harder as the carpe diem attitude materialized.

Brandon stepped into the current. The rush broke upon his thigh, but with a small twist of the articulating head, Brandon redirected the flow upward and felt the power of the one horsepower discharge slam against his crotch. It was a unique sensation. As his cock was already underwater, the powerful surge was softened, dampened even further by his thin swimming trunks. A comparable feeling could not be achieved by, say, a handheld shower, when the water stings on impact. Here, his stiff cock fluttered in the movements of the water. The vibration sent a hum straight through to his prostate.

Brandon leaned his elbows on his thoughtfully placed towel and watched the landscaper. By now he was hacking mercilessly at an unruly stand of coarse grass. Brandon could not be heard groaning softly under the racket of the revving trimmer. As the string tore through the blades, grass shards struck the man’s legs, peppering his black socks and falling inside the wide tops of his deck boots, which were turning greener by the minute. If Brandon wasn’t careful, he would tip over the edge far too quickly. He swung his hips, pulling his highly stimulated cock out of the path of the rushing water.

For the next ten minutes, Brandon stood by the pool’s edge, tops of his ears and neck turning pink, appearing from the waist up to be placidly relaxing the morning away as the man in the deck boots toiled, while from the waist down he was edging himself closer to an explosive end. He would intermittently thrust himself into the action of the pool pump, then pull himself back before passing the point of no return. His body was screaming for release, tortured by the tickling probe of the water and the young man who was completely unaware that his white boots and black socks were the object of such arousal.

The insides of those short boots had to smell incredible. Brandon could see the perspiration glistening on the man’s arms and legs. He could only imagine how damp those black socks were in the neoprene boots, pieces of grass sticking to the soaked cotton. Were it not for the whir and crackle of the trimmer, would he hear the faint squawk of the wet sock sliding against the lining of the boot? He was about to go into his final round of pool jet when the man cut the trimmer’s motor. The silence was practically deafening. Brandon felt suddenly less bold in its honesty. He was just determining that he would have to postpone his climax until the man cleared out when he set the trimmer on the pool deck and started in his direction, the soft clap of the rubber soles growing louder over the hum of the pump.

Was he coming to talk? Brandon couldn’t tell if he was looking at him or not, his eyes hidden behind the rainbow reflection of deep-tinted aviators. He stopped a few feet from Brandon’s towel. Brandon had a difficult time not staring at the white rounded toes of the boots so close to his elbow, little glass clippings clinging like scallion flecks to a sour cream and onion chip. The man nodded again in acknowledgement. “Great day to be in there,” his baritone boomed. He mopped at the back of his neck with his hand. Brandon could smell the mixture of two cycle exhaust and sweat on him. It was intoxicating.

“Sure is. Thanks for, uh, doing all that. Especially on such a hot day.”

The man nodded. “I’m just going to clean out the skimmer basket real quick and then I’ll be out of your hair. They get really dirty and it helps out the pool people if we check them when we come.” To Brandon’s astonishment, the man crouched directly next to his towel, pulling a plastic cover from the cement deck. His left knee pointed toward Brandon, affording him a view directly down the man’s shin and into his gaping boot. He could see the grass fragments clinging to the boot lining, see the man’s sock as it curved down onto his foot. The man lifted the skimmer basket and stood, walking to the deck’s edge and tossing the soggy accumulated debris into the flower bed.

As he returned, boots thudding, Brandon made the decision to step once more before the pool jet. He could feel his pelvic muscles beginning to contact as his cock pulsed against the stream, water softly bubbling up and rippling at his stomach. The man crouched again, replacing the basket, this time at a slightly different angle. Brandon took in the gray stretchy material at the collar at it rubbed against the ribs of the man’s socks. That was when the spiral from control began.

The man replaced the plastic cover, and just as an 8.0 on the Richter scale began to tear all the way through to Brandon’s anus, the man looked at him, a half smile on his lips. “You enjoy yourself, now. Have a nice day.” He stood and walked off to retrieve the weed whacker. Brandon couldn’t speak—he knew it would only come out as a whimper.

As the pool gate clicked shut, Brandon looked down at the wisps of white the billowed around his swimming trunks, almost like dust motes. It was one of his strongest orgasms to date, and he had the distinct impression that the landscaper was well aware. And perhaps even approved.