Capping the Season

The day Hunter sold the "big house" he took a deep breath and patted himself on the back as he signed the final contract. And it wasn't because he'd sucked off the hot, married real estate agent in the back seat of a black Mercedes SUV an hour earlier, either. A deep breath, because the atrocious Mac Mansion on six acres had swallowed his hard earned money for five years; and a silent pat on the back, because the sale actually helped him attain his original goal, which was to own a smaller home without a mortgage before turning thirty years old. With money he'd inherited from his grandfather, Hunter had purchased the "big house" with a small down payment and a huge mortgage a month after he'd landed his first job at a law firm. He'd known it would be a struggle, and that he'd have to make huge sacrifices, but he'd also suspected the investment would pay off in the end.
He walked away from settlement that morning in late September with the sweet taste of straight-guy dick in his mouth and a savory cashier's check for more than twice what he'd originally paid; a twenty-eight year old financial success, now the proud owner of a 3,000 square foot luxury townhouse that didn't have a claim against it.
The only thing he'd miss about the "big house" was the location: six acres of green lawn, the farthest rear section backing up to a baseball field that was part of a large corporate insurance complex. Not the typical baseball field, with sand, bare patches of unkempt grass and faded white lines. The field behind Hunter's house resembled a country club, with lush, emerald sod, thickly mulched, manicured gardens and perfect white lines connecting the bases. An expensive sprinkler system kept the field perpetually fresh; landscaping crews, with dirty young guys in baggy shorts and black sneakers, primped and prodded the faultless gardens daily. Because he couldn't afford a landscaping crew for his property, Hunter mowed his lawn and maintained his own simple gardens year round, never too shy to linger at the back of the property during baseball season wearing nothing but skimpy cotton shorts the landscaping boys could practically see through.
Hunter's sex appeal came in that innocent way dark, rough men always seem to notice. About five eleven, with blond hair and large blue eyes; a slim body frame enhanced by working out in the basement with free weights and pushups. Though his arms weren't particularly large, his chest muscles responded to bench presses and pushups to the point where they rounded and popped like unbreakable ostrich egg shells sliced directly in half. But most men noticed one thing first: his round ass, a protruding cushion begging to be pounded and slapped and plugged.
The landscaping guys, always on the do, would furtively watch while he pruned and trimmed hedges, parading his naked torso, sometimes pulling the sheer shorts so far below his waist that half the crack of his smooth ass could be seen. Though it didn't happen often (most of the time this was just a show), when Hunter noticed one of the guys seriously watching, he'd gradually arch his back, stretch his arms and then nod toward the garden shed. The guy would follow him to a private place behind the shed, where Hunter would slip off his shorts and lay face down on a pile of mulch. He'd then spread his legs wide, arch his back so his engaging ass would be in the air, and the guy would pull down his zipper for a quick afternoon fuck. In a white enamel pail with chips around the rim, Hunter kept lube and a full supply of condoms. Once, on a rare, unforgettable afternoon, when four Spanish speaking studs had been drinking too much beer on the job, Hunter spread his legs and arched his back while all four took turns nailing him into the mulch pile. It took a week for the reddish hand prints, where they'd squeezed his supple ass so hard, to disappear.