Grass Clippings
Copyright© 2026 by Gots
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Grass Clippings is filthy human gay erotica. New men, new rooms, new trouble every chapter. First times. Bad ideas. Far-out fantasies. Sometimes you are the one on your knees, sometimes you are the one on an alien world with horny extra terrestrials. Erotic writing and animation by Gots Creations, also known as OrangeOkami.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual Romantic Gay Fiction Cheating Anal Sex First Oral Sex 2nd POV
You show up in old jeans and a faded shirt because Rich asked if you could help with the yard, and you said yes like a good neighbor. Saturday. Hot. The kind of heat that sits on the street and makes the cut grass smell sharp, green and a little sweet, and makes your shirt stick to your back before you even pick up a bag.
His house is the one with the trimmed hedges and the wife’s car usually in the drive. The car is gone. The mower is out, and so is he.
Rich is already halfway through the lawn when you get there. He has been your straight neighbor, and he’s never given you a reason to believe otherwise. Always with an easy smile. Broad shoulders. Brown full head of hair. Sweat darkening the collar of his shirt and a darker patch down the middle of his chest. Late thirties, maybe, the kind of fit that comes from work and not a gym mirror. He looks like the guy on the hardware store flyer, if the flyer also made your stomach go wild.
“Thanks for coming,” he says. “Mower’s being a dick. Grab those bags?”
You work. You haul clippings. You edge the walk while he finishes the back. You try not to watch the way his forearms flex when he dumps a bag into the bin. You fail at that part. Every time he bends, the back of his shirt rides up and you get a strip of tan lower back, the waistband of his jeans, a glimpse of the sweat line disappearing under the denim. He catches you once, early, and just nods like you were looking at the edger.
“Bags are in the garage if you need more,” Rich says. “Don’t kill yourself. It’s just grass.”
You keep your eyes on the lawn and your head does not cooperate. The sun climbs. Your neck burns. He peels his gloves off with his teeth at one point and you have to look at a fence post until the feeling passes. When he walks by, close, you get soap under the grass smell, and heat, and you hate how fast your body files that away.
After an hour he tips his chin toward the garage.
“Water. Come on. I’m dying.”
The garage is cooler and dim. Concrete floor. Oil stain by the workbench. A mini fridge humming in the corner, beer magnets on the side, a dented toolbox, rakes on the wall. The street is still bright in the open door. Rich pulls two bottles, tosses you one, drinks half of his in one go, then leans back against the bench. His throat works. His shirt is rucked up a little. A line of damp hair runs down from his navel into his jeans. He catches you looking.
“You’ve been staring since you got here.”
Your face goes hot. “I wasn’t...”
“Yeah you were.” Calm. Not mean. Almost curious. He sets the bottle down and thumbs his waistband, not opening anything yet. A car goes by on the street and neithr of you looks at it. “Wife’s at her sister’s till tomorrow. I’ve been thinking about a mouth all morning. You offering one, bud, or am I reading this wrong?”
The yard is still out there. The street is still out there. The mower sits in the open doorway like it is watching.
You should say he is reading it wrong.
You say, “You’re not.”
Rich’s mouth quirks. “Then hit that garage door button.”
You hit the button. The door rumbles down and cuts the daylight to a strip along the floor. The garage gets smaller. Quieter. You can hear the fridge and your own pulse. He pops his button. Unzips. Reaches in and lifts himself out like he has already done this in his head.
His cock is beautiful. That is the only word that fits. Thick, cut, heavy, the head flushed dark and already wet at the slit. Veins standing from the heat and the work. It looks expensive and stupidly perfect against his tan stomach and the open fly of his dirty jeans. The shaft is rock hard at the base, a solid bar of him, no give when you are going to wrap your hand around it, and still smooth, skin slick with sweat and the first shine of precum. Heavy enough that it bobs when he lets it go. The smell comes up off the base the second the air hits it. Heat. Soap. Cut grass. Clippings stuck to his boot.
“Jesus,” you say, which is not smooth.
Rich huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Come here.”
You go to your knees on the concrete. Oil stain under one palm. Grass on his boot. The floor is cool through your jeans. He threads a hand into your hair, not yanking, just holding you there while he taps that pretty head against your lower lip. A wet spot kisses your mouth.
“Open. No teeth. Don’t get weird about it after.”