Park and . . . Oh Yeah

There are slow or even tragic evenings at the park-and-ride lot. Then there are Monday nights like this one, when I pull with a sharp right up the ramp and into the center of an empty stretch of spaces at the far end. I’m not even there for a hot minute when another vehicle slides in next to mine. It’s a slick black sedan, foreign-made. I look up from my phone warily, steeling myself for the sight of a bad set of teeth, or a less-than-attractive face, or a belly upon which one could easily rest entire shelves of commemorative plates.

But no, the guy’s handsome—clearly Latin, with salt-and-pepper hair on the pepper side, groomed into a professional and sexy wave across his forehead. Despite the gray, he’s younger than I. He’s wearing a crisply-pressed white businessman’s shirt, and a gray suit jacket. He’s lost the tie somewhere before this exit. His head is turned to look in my direction.

I have absolutely no qualms about staring back. This man is fine. Damned fine.

For a half-minute we bathe in each other’s glances. I can tell from the flicker of his eyes he’s checking out my jawline, my hair. I’m looking at the neat lines of his shirt, the angle at which it falls against an obviously-muscular chest.

He unbuckles. Open his door. Steps out of his car. When he stands, I can tell he’s only about five-five, maybe five-six. But he’s a hot little fucker. While he maintains eye contact with me over his windshield, he pulls off that expensive suit coat, folds it deftly, and stores it on his seat. His fingers flip open the clasps on his cuff links; he tosses them atop the jacket and shuts his door. Then he’s folding the ends of those French cuffs over each other and exposing his brawny forearms as he moves in my direction.

He bends down a little, looks through my window. I nod, and he lets himself in. “I like your looks,” he says, once he’s sitting down. His hand reaches out to massage the bulge in my jeans. There’s not a shy bone in this guy’s body. “Damn. Big boy.”

He’s got a lump in his own pants that he’s rubbing with the heel of his free hand. “You’re not tiny,” I comment.

“You married?” he asks.

I nod. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sixteen years. Damn. I love that dick. That’s what I need.”

He looks around. I do, too. There’s a pickup truck at the lot’s other end with its back hatch pulled down; two men are moving something from a car to the truck’s bed, but they’re a long distance away. He unzips his pants, pulls them down beneath his butt. They’re wrapped around his knees. He’s wearing a pair of blue-striped boxers from Brooks Brothers; he opens the fly and pulls out his cock. It’s no monster, but it’s a beauty. A good six and a half inches, maybe, fat, perfectly formed. “Fuck,” I say. “Let me suck it.”

“So you like sucking?” he asks, looking around.

“I love to suck.”

“Ahhh, probably shouldn’t do it here though.”

“Just a taste,” I beg. I’m hungry for that beauty.

“Show me yours.”

I unzip, unbutton. I pull out the goods. He hisses at the sight. “Sssssshit. You’re way bigger than me.”

“You’ve got a hot one though,” I assure him. I’m still staring at it.

“What gets you super-hard?” he asks.

I look around again. “Privacy,” I joke.

“How about a hot ass?”

I nod, and lick my lips. Yeah. I love hot ass.

And he can tell. The fucker responds by turning in the passenger seat so that he’s resting on his right hip. He pulls down his boxers and exposes his butt to me. It’s round, and smooth, and creamy. “Touch it,” he says. “Go on. Touch it.”

I waste no time. I reach out with my hand and grab the man’s butt. He loves the way I manhandle his flesh. “Squeeze it. Yeah. It can take some rough treatment,” he says in a soft voice. “Yeah. Just like that.”

I have one cheek in each hand, and I’m squeezing and separating them. I’m pulling them apart to expose his hole. It’s tiny, and pink, and hairless, almost as if it’s been shaved. I’m pretty sure this is natural, though.

“You can touch it,” he whispers. “It’s cool. It’s clean. Touch it.”

I run a fingertip over the pucker. It responses by disappearing and then blossoming out. “Beautiful,” I muse.

“You want it?” he wants to know. I nod at him. He looks at me over his shoulder, then sticks a meticulously-manicured thumb into his mouth. He wets it, then reaches around and shoves it into his own hole. “Show me how you’d fuck me,” he says. He gestures with his head at my dick. “Beat it.”

My meat is stiff and throbbing at this point. I check around me again before I begin pumping, but then I keep my eyes on that hole. He’s sodomizing his own butt with his thumb, driving it in and pulling it out again. His wedding ring glints at me with every thrust. “Would you fuck me hard?” he wants to know.

“Yeah, I’d fuck you hard,” I say. I start pounding my fist around my meat, to show him. It turns him on. He squirms and pulls apart his cheeks to expose his winking hole again. “I’d fuck you like a bitch in heat.”

“Bet the wife loves that monster raping her,” he says. Our eyes meet. “I know I would.”

It’s the intimacy of that instant that sets me off. Sperm spurts out of my dick and cascades down my clenched fist, icing the knuckles and dripping down onto the seat below. He watches with fascination until I’m done. Then he rights himself on the seat, stares at my still-oozing erection. In a swift, unexpected motion he leans over. I feel the heat of his breath on my shaft, feel the wetness of his tongue. It grazes against the head as he takes a lick of my load for his prize.

Then he’s groping in my glove box and tossing me a napkin from Taco Bell, while he pulls up his boxers and suit pants and pulls himself together.

“Are you around here often?” I ask. I want to see this man again. Naked, in a hotel room.

“Not often. Even the little I am is too often,” he says, not unkindly. We both know the chances of running across each other again soon are slim.

“I get that,” I tell him. He waits for me to clean up my mess, and to pull up my pants again. Then he’s out and gone. From his own car he gives me a salute before he pulls out.

Encounters like I wrote about last week are what make me always consider not going back to this particular car park.

Men like this one are what keep me going back.

Park and . . . Yikes.

Guys are always asking me in email or on an instant messenger about the park-and-ride lot I visit. They picture it as basically a roadside orgy, an outdoors bathhouse—a spot where cruisers approach my windows the minute I drive up, hoping for a taste of my dick. Throw in some roller skates and a chocolate malted and the cruisers sound like carhops at a sexy Treasure Island drive-in.

Obviously, it’s not like that at all.

No, the park-and-ride lot is first and foremost just a parking lot in the middle of nowhere where businessmen and women meet for carpools into Manhattan in the mornings. It’s where families from different parts of the county will meet to transfer crap for a weekend tag sale from one trunk to another. It’s the spot from which busses carrying school groups to a weekend theater matinee will leave, and where the parents will idle at the appointed time to pick them up again. At any given time, eighty to ninety percent of the cars in the lot are there for legitimate business.

Frankly, there are days on which the remaining ten percent aren’t worth hanging around for. I’ve had a little more time to myself than usual this month and I’ve ended up hitting the park-and-ride a little more than usual in the last couple of weeks. I went at eleven on a Sunday night (“Sunday nights are incredibly hot at this place!”, read the online review at a cruising site) to find myself the only car in the lot at all. I left after a very quiet and action-less fifteen minutes.

I paid the lot another visit when it was on my way home the next night. It was after rush hour, so there were plenty of open spots around. I was a little disappointed when, after a couple of minutes in a quieter corner of the lot, a woman pulled in next to my car. It was dusk, and her van had some kind of tinting on the windows, so all I could really see was a blond bob. I figured it was some suburban housewife picking up her husband after a late night at the office.

Then she got out of the car with a black clutch in her left hand. It wasn’t a woman. It was definitely a cross-dresser. Not an artful cross-dresser, either—that is, not one who went to any lengths to create an illusion of femininity. Basically, it was an old bald man with a wig in a Lily Pulitzer dress, with thick chest hair sprouting out of the neckline. He looked like Benny Hill’s sidekick, Jackie Wright, stuffed into leftovers from the local Methodist church rummage sale.

Luckily I’d already pulled out my cell phone to check mail when I’d thought it was a housewife; I slunk down in my seat and did my best to appear invisible as she made several passes by the front of my car in an effort to entice me. It didn’t work.

Another time I went back to find the place hopping—just not with anyone I found remotely attractive. After I parked my car, two guys—one Phillip Seymour Hoffman lookalike who was actually wearing a trench coat that made him look like a flasher, and the other a married guy with a comb-over who pulled a fifth of bourbon out of his trunk and took a massive swig from it before approaching—circled around my car like it was a fishing boat, and they were sharks from one of the Jaws movies who’d caught the scent of bloody chum. When I maintained a studious (and oblivious) concentration on my cell phone and proceeded to make an imaginary call to no one, they took off into the woods and presumably went at each other. And they were welcome to it.

A third man approached my car after they left. He wasn’t bad looking. He was tall, in his forties, and wasn’t actively cultivating the image and dress sense of a child molester. My bar isn’t too high, you know. “How’re you doing tonight?” he said, rubbing a bulge in the front of his jeans.

“I’m good,” I told him, giving him a great big smile. Men like my smile. I like to disarm them with it.

He was so charmed that he smiled back. I actually recoiled at the sight of his teeth. At the roots they were yellow. Out toward the ends, they were a rancid brown. Even as I type these words, I’m trying not to gag at the memory. I don’t know whether I was looking at active decay, or the kind of tobacco stains that came from religiously packing chaw into his mouth before every bedtime. But it was vile, whatever it was. It was so disgusting that I was actually speechless. “You looking for fun?” he leered at me with those brown teeth, as he leaned in to look through the driver’s side window.

I was totally speechless. There was no way I was having sex with that man. I didn’t want that mouth and those teeth anywhere near my dick.

Despite the fact that he’d already peered in to see the outline of my hard-on beneath the flimsy shorts I was wearing, I was considering initiating another imaginary phone call. Then the guy saved me, when he saw my left hand scrambling to cover up my quickly-evaporating arousal. “Aw, fuck,” he said, heaving his shoulders. “You’re married.” He wheeled around like a teenaged girl upset that I hadn’t bought her the pair of shoes she’d wanted. “Fuck. Why do I always have to fall for the married ones?”

“OH WELL!” I nearly shouted with relief, as I rolled up my windows. “SORRY ‘BOUT THAT!”

I think the tread marks are still there that I left as I peeled rubber home.

Monday Park and Ride

When I pull into the park-and-ride lot, it’s nearly full with cars idling, headlights on. Most of the cars are mini-vans, or foreign-made SUVs. Most have women at the wheel. I drive to the lot’s far end and pull into a length where there are a few empty spaces. Almost immediately after I turn off the ignition, I see why there are so many moms waiting in their cars; a short yellow bus pulls into the lot’s mouth, disgorges a dozen middle-school-aged kids, and eases off again. The children run and skip to their respective parents. The cars whirr into motion and disappear in the direction of the parkway.

Save for a few empty cars belonging to city commuters, I’m alone in the lot.

But not for long. A sedan pulls in next to me. He’s about to drive a half-dozen spaces down and park on the opposite side of a pair of parked and empty cars, but he catches sight of me turning to glimpse him. He pulls instead into the space next to mine. The park-and-ride can be a dicey place to pick guys up. I’ve had hot times at it, but the number of trolls and guys I find unattractive is so disproportionately high there to what I find in online spots, or in bars. So I look over cautiously, casually, prepared to let my glance wander past without engaging if the man looks unpleasant.

This guy, though. Handsome. Young. His dark hair is cut meticulously. Even through the two layers of glass that are my window and his, I can tell he’s a looker. And the looker’s looking right at me. I arrest my glance when our eyes meet. They lock, drill into each other. He nods slightly. I nod. He looks around to see if there are any other cars in the vicinity, then looks back at me. He jerks his head toward the lot exit. I nod, and start my car.

I follow him to the smaller commuter lot on the north side of the parkway. The south lot can hold three dozen cars; this one can barely fit nine. I park at a right angle to his car, slip out of my vehicle, and walk over to the sedan’s passenger side. He puts his hand on my leg when I sit down in the leather seat. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I smile back.

He’s even more handsome than I thought. He’s East Indian from one of his parents, white from the other, is my best guess. His hand slides up to my crotch, and rubs my hard dick through the denim. He’s wearing an expensive shirt of an on-trend shade of purple. French cuffs. Gold cuff links with sapphires, or something sapphire-adjacent. Fine wool pants. I’m feeling like a scrub in my hoodie and ratty brown T-shirt, with my Converse sneakers and my tousled hair. At least, when he leans over to unzip me, I can boast I’m wearing a pair of Hugo Boss briefs. But they’re not even mine. The Rock Star lent them to me for the week. “You’re really handsome,” I venture.

“God, so are you,” he whispers back.

I straighten up. Alert, he pulls back. As I zip my jeans, a car backs into the space directly beside us. The driver’s face leers out the window, only a couple of feet away. He’s an older guy, which I don’t find repellant in itself at all. But he’s not really a sexy, daddy-like older guy. He’s more like the jowly predator in a trench coat who lurks at the edges of playgrounds, in parents’ worst imaginations. He looks more whiskery bloodhound than human. He’s not there to park, or ride. He’s there to stare and leer and try to catch a glimpse of the action.

The drive and I wait a moment, hands on each other’s legs. “Is it worth trying to outwait him?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get home.” He wears a wedding ring.

“Do you know anywhere else?” I ask. He shakes his head once more.

It’s a wash. I tell him I hope I’ll see him again, and I return to my car. Then I drive back to the south lot, park again, and wait.

Again, I don’t have to idle for long. A man pulls in next to me in a foreign-made truck, shiny, new, and obviously never used for hauling anything heavier than groceries. He’s an older guy. But this is the kind of older guy for which I easily go weak at the knees—well-groomed, handsome, in good shape. Even from the biceps up I can tell he’s a beefy man who takes care of himself. He’s sitting a couple of feet above me, so when I grab my crotch and squeeze it, he’s got a clear view. I nod at the seat beside me.

He slips out of the cab of his truck and into my car. “Hi,” I say.

He just puts one hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in, and kisses me. He tastes like coffee, but it’s a good taste; I keep my eyes open and my senses alert as he opens my mouth with his probing tongue. Then he lets go of me.

“Fuck,” is my only reply.

He’s also very well dressed. His shirt is white, pressed, and pleated in all the right spots. He flips open a couple of buttons to expose the barrel of his chest. It’s covered with silver fur. His pecs are impressive for a man of any age, but this cat has to be at least in his late sixties. I reach over to his trousers—a caramel-colored herringbone tweed—and find his dick immediately. It’s rock-hard, and jutting to the left. He’s big. My size big.

His hands are on the back of my neck, kneading the muscles there. “Sweet Jesus,” I whisper.

He speaks his first words. “I would give anything to get you naked, son.”

I shiver. “I’d do anything you told me, sir.”

“Yeah?” He asks. He’s obviously turned on by my mode of address. Beneath the herringbone, his dick stirs and becomes even harder. “Anything?”

“What do you want, dad?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He’s got a firm grip on the back of my neck. “I’d tell you to take all your clothes off and get naked for me.” I nod. “Then I’d tell you to stroke yourself while daddy watches.”

“Yes sir,” I whisper.

“Then I’d push you to your knees and make you suck daddy’s dick.”

“I want to suck daddy’s dick,” I say, with an unconscious lick of my lips.

“Then I’d flip you over and explore that hole of yours,” he promises.

I can barely breath, my breath is so raspy. “Would you . . . want to fuck me?” He nods, very slowly, very deliberately. “I don’t get fucked very often.”

“I don’t know why not. You sure are pretty, son.”

“I’d give it up for you, sir.”

“Sweet little boy,” he says. The novelty of being anyone’s little boy at this time of my life is overwhelming. I flush furiously with pleasure as he runs the edge of his hand through my hair. “You’d do as you’re told?”

“I always do what my dad tells me,” I promise.

“You’d be obedient? You want to please daddy?”

“Yes sir,” I say. There’s a slight whine of need in my voice.

“Do you want my dick? Do you want it now?” He’s pushing at the back of my head as he unfastens his tweeds with the other. Fucker has no underwear on. He just whips it out. He’s sitting there with that carpet of silver fur on his chest, shirt open to the waist, pants unzipped, big dick leaking precum. Then he shoves down with his hand.

I know what dad wants. He keeps an eye out while I bend down and suck him. I wrap my mouth around that stiff rod. All the way down I go, only to slide all the way back up, using only my lips and the strength of my embouchure to make my mouth tight around his cock. He keeps a hand on the back of my head the entire time, pushing me down and thrusting up into my mouth in a fast-paced rhythm. It isn’t going to take long, I can tell. He’s already producing even more precum. He’s leaking like a faucet onto my tongue and down the back of my throat.

When he climaxes, it’s swiftly and silently. He holds my head down the entire time. As if I’m tempted to come up for air. I want that fucking load. He sprays it into my mouth, a thin and salty geyser of fluid that I have to swallow twice to consume. I wait for the last glob, then back off.

I sit there, stunned by it all. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in—it just happened so fucking quickly. He zips up, claps his hands on his legs, and stares at me. “You’ve got sperm in your beard,” he says, pointing to the right side of his face, mirroring where it is. I raise my left hand automatically to locate it and wipe it away, but he grabs my wrist, hard. “Leave it,” he orders. “Are you going home now?”

I nod.

“Leave it in your beard all the way home. Don’t touch it. Don’t get rid of it. When you get home, that’s when you can wipe it away. Before anyone else notices.” He releases the tight clutch on my wrist, and brings my hand to his lips in a courtly manner. He kisses the ring on the fourth finger.

“Yes sir,” I promise.

He exits with another ruffle of my hair. I look at my face in the mirror. It’s not just a little sperm. It’s a huge spray of it. I don’t even know how it could’ve gotten there.

But I wear it as my badge of honor on the drive home, proud to have been a good daddy’s boy.

Supermarket Suck-Off

He comments here fairly frequently. I know he’ll read this entry.

But it’s all good. I’ve got absolutely nothing bad to say about the guy. Quite the contrary. He’s a stud.

There’s a reader of mine who lives fairly close to me. I know this because we’ve exchanged messages on Scruff late at night, when we’re both at home.The GPS locator puts us at a little over a half-mile apart. We’ve talked on a couple of other sites as well. His pics show a handsome, muscular top man. The two of us have traded tips on some of the area bottoms from time to time. Since we live in the same neighborhood, more or less, we’ve talked about some of the local cuties as well—I know about the sexy young guy working the local party store because of his tip, for example. (And he is cute!)

He’s read my blog before I moved here, I think. But we hadn’t gotten together ever, though we’ve known about each other for months and months.

That changed this week.

We were on a website, Monday. I wasn’t planning to stick around indefinitely—I had a few errands I had to run. He said hello, though, so we exchanged a few pleasantries via the site’s messaging system. I’m heading up to the Buy-More, I told him, naming one of the local supermarket chains. Then, semi-jokingly, I added, Come up and find me and I’ll blow you in the parking lot.

As I said, I typed it only semi-jokingly.

So there I was at the market, halfway through my weekly shopping, resting my forearms on my cart in the middle of the dried pasta aisle as I consulted my list to see what else I needed. I looked up, and there was an attractive guy making his way toward me. Wow, I thought to myself, grinning inside. This guy really called my bluff. I like that in a man. “Hey,” I said with a grin, when he came in speaking distance.

“Hey,” he replied. He smiled as well, but kept walking. It was almost as if he didn’t expect me to acknowledge him in public—as if I might say something online like Track me down at the Buy-More and I’ll blow you, but in the flesh I’d just be one of those assholes that only nods and lets him pass by.

I’m not that kind of guy, though.

“I’m glad you came out,” I told him. “It’s great finally to meet you.” We shook hands, and chatted for a minute in the aisle. He said that he’d been between running errands himself when he got my message online, and basically had a reaction of what the hell, let me see if I can find him. I was where I said I’d be, and I look like my online photos, so it wasn’t difficult to track me down.

He was parked at the far end of the lot, he told me. His car was between a line of hedges and a truck. Out of the way, out of sight. I looked at my list. “Give me five or ten minutes,” I told him. “Let me finish getting my groceries and checking out. I’ll meet you down there.”

Easy enough. Ten minutes later I dumped my groceries in my car, drove down to the other end of the lot, and walked around the parked, empty truck to find the guy in his car. We climbed into his back seat and looked at each other. Then my hand went out for his crotch. His dick was hardening beneath the denim. I looked him in the eye. “Take it out,” I told him.

His fingers raced to unbutton his jeans. He tugged them down beneath his nuts, and lifted up his shirt to show me his flat abs and his undeniably sexy body. “Damn,” I said in a whisper. “That is a beautiful dick.”

It was a beauty. I hadn’t seen it clearly erect in his profile photos. In person, though, it was the kind of dick that made me want to suck. His balls eased out and separated as I leaned down to wrap my mouth around the shaft. He sighed softly as my lips made contact. The guy tasted good. He smelled like soap, from the tip of his stiff and dripping prick down to his shaved nuts. He was a lot like me in that he started to pump out the precum almost as soon as his dick started to get attention. Every time he rewarded me with a taste, I’d grunt instinctively, rooting for more like a French pig after truffles.

He had moved the driver’s seat up to give himself leg room. It was broad daylight—just after lunchtime, in fact. While he kept an eye out on the parking lot, I knelt with one leg down on the floor and angled myself so that I was a little more squarely in front of him, and went to work on the dick. I circled it with a couple of fingers and my thumb and let the tight circle slide up and down, following the slickness my spit left behind as I slowly bobbed up and down on his meat. He grunted, and sighed; his fingers riffled through my hair. Then his hand cupped my head and gently pushed me down in a steady rhythm. He wanted it faster. I obliged.

My grip on his dick tightened as I picked up the past. Glob after glob of salty fluid oozed from his dick’s tip as I increased the sensation. Whether or not he realized it, his knees spread further apart to give me more access. “I’m going to come soon,” he told me.

I knew. The man was basically shooting already, with the sheer amount of precum his dick was producing. It only took a few determined strokes of my tight mouth and hand to bring him off, and then he was shooting, pressing down on my skull so that I took him to the base. He held me there as he pumped his load in my mouth. I let it accumulate on my tongue. Then I backed off and swallowed.

And damn. I’ve got to say—that was the best-tasting load I have had in months. The stuff tasted so good that I went down and sucked the remains still dripping out of his slit. Then I kissed his flat stomach, just because it was so pretty.

He laughed, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. “Wow,” he said.

“Was it okay?” I asked.

“More than okay!” he responded, still laughing and recuperating.

“That’s a beautiful dick,” I told him. I watched as he put it away, and wiped off my mouth with the back of my forearm. “I’m hoping you’ll give me more of it, now we’ve formally met.”

He agreed that there’d be more in the future. I adjusted my hard dick in my pants so that it wasn’t quite as visible, and waited as he finished snapping and buckling and getting back to normal. We sat there for a half-second of silence when he was done, then grinned at each other.

“You know I’m going to write about this,” I told him, as we both got out of the back seat.

He knew.

This is exactly how it should be—two guys connect, go at it, and enjoy each other. If nothing else, now my reader knows one thing about me: I don’t bluff. I show up where I say I’m going to show up, and I follow through.

This time with delicious results. And my gallon of ice cream didn’t even have time to melt.

Close Calls

It only takes one word to change the situation from good to bad. I’m lifting up my pelvis, pulling down my shorts, when the man in the driver’s seat next to me says, “Cops.”

I turn my head to the right, toward the entrance of the parking lot, and sure enough, a tan sedan’s pulling in through the entrance. In the other cars I can see a flurry of activity. Men pick up their phones and suddenly pretend to be involved in phone calls in which they weren’t, seconds before. The man parked by the entrance who had been staring lasciviously at anyone and everyone driving in is suddenly involved in a crossword puzzle. The man in the black compact who had been zooming around the parking lot like a maddened beetle, parking by car after car so that he could look into the windows and check out the prospects, zooms out and toward the parkway.

“Shit,” I say. I’m naked from the waist down. My cock’s pointed at the ceiling of this guy’s SUV. This won’t do.

I’d pulled into the lot only a few minutes before. It was one of the long, lingering August dusks I’ve learned to expect here, when daylight ebbs away, but night seems reluctant to fall. It had been dusk when I’d pulled away from home a half-hour before; it was dusk when I drove my car into the cruisy lot and to its far end. I could tell it was busy. I’ve only visited this spot a handful of times, and I’d never seen it quite as busy as it was that night. Usually there are at least two to three spaces between the parked cars. Tonight, there’s only one at most.

I’d pulled up next to the van simply because it was parked at the lot’s far end, far away from the unattractive troll sitting by the entrance who’d basically done a double-take when he’d seen me. My windows were down. I’d turned off the ignition. When I looked at the SUV next to mine, I was relieved to see that the guy was rugged, and handsome. His face was covered with scruff. The rest of him I couldn’t see, but he was sexy enough that when he leaned over and called through his open window, “Hey there,” I didn’t mind replying with a friendly hello. “What’re you doing tonight?” he asked.

“Just killing some time,” I drawled.

“Want to kill time over here with me?”

He didn’t have to ask twice. I’d left my car and hopped into the passenger seat. He was a lean and sexy man, I found, and from the moment I was in his car, his hands were all over me. He grabbed my crotch and felt the hardness within. He rubbed his hands over my legs, seeming to like the abundance of hair there. His hands crept over my stomach, my chest, my shoulders, my biceps, squeezing and testing and prodding. “I’m like you,” he said. “Lean, mean, and with a major piece.”

“Show me,” I urged, in a whisper.

He’d unbuckled his shorts and flashed his dick at me. He’d been wearing a leather cock strap wrapped tightly around his engorged meat. It was by no means as long as mine, but it was a respectable seven. And fat. It was one of those superior dicks I see every once in a blue moon—a dick that’s just got beautiful proportions above and beyond the usual run-of-the-mill dick. A dick nearly as superior as mine. Yeah, that was a major piece.

“Let me see yours,” he’d said.

“Zip up,” I’d told him.

And that’s how, when the cops pulled into the lot, I’d been caught pants down when he was discreetly covered.

It doesn’t take me long to zip up. But here I am, in a stranger’s car, seat back, heart pounding and face flushed, dick tenting in my cargo shorts, with my own vehicle a good ten steps away. The cop has pulled directly into a spot past the car beyond mine. “I think I’ll go back to my car,” I say, more as a test balloon than anything else. It sounds good when I say it, though. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

“Follow me,” suggests the man. “There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts down the road. Follow me there.”

I look at him. He’s so scruffy and handsome; he looks like James Denton from Desperate Housewives. “Okay,” I say, though I have no idea where we’re going.

There’s a flurry of activity as I exit the man’s car. A vanload of college-aged kids in a day in the city arrives, and the youths disperse from its side. I take advantage of the confusion to slide back into my car. My buddy in the van pulls out behind me and heads toward the exit. When I pull out to follow, the cop car shifts into reverse, turns around, and joins the exit queue between the van and my car.


Crap, I’m thinking. What if the cop wants to pull over my new friend? I’m making calculations in my head about what I could and should do. I’m figuring that if the squad car follows the van, I’ll simply turn in the opposite direction and head home. That sounds sensible. My friend in the van turns left. The cop car and I advance. The cop turns right.

Finally I flip on my signal. Left it is.

The Dunkin’ Donuts is about a mile down the road—it’s a pretty long drive, that’s for sure, especially when you’re looking in the rear-view mirror expecting to see flashing red and blue lights at any minute. The lot was empty, though, save for a few stragglers going in and out of the liquor store a little further down. Once again, I pull next to his car. He’s already in the back seat; he opens the door for me from the inside, and I join him in the darkness.

“Fuck,” he says.

“That was too close,” I agree.

And then he’s on me. That’s all the dialogue we have. He’s unbuttoning my plaid shirt until it hangs to either side of my chest, yanking off my shorts. I’m not wearing underwear. I’m lying on the leatherette of his SUV’s back seat wearing nothing but an open shirt and a pair of sneakers, and he’s on top of me. I’ve ripped open his shirt so that we’re chest to chest, our mouths hungrily consuming the other’s, making out so hard I’m sure my lips are bruise-red.

His pants are own, tangled around his ankles. His fat dick is pressed against mine. We’re leaving sticky webs of pre-cum strands between us as we grind and thrust and go at each other. We’re like animals in heat, working off the fear and anxiety of the parking lot with each other. We’re hungry, and desperate, and happy to be free. Nothing could feel better than the pressure and hardness of his dick against mine, as we make out and hump like horny high-schoolers.

Then we freeze. On the seat behind us there’s a steady pattern of flashing lights. After a moment of stillness, we both jerk up and clutch at our clothing. My hands go for my shirt. He gropes for his pants.
Then, at the same moment, we see the source of the flashing lights. There’s a tow truck slowly trundling down the road. We look at it, and then at each other, and laugh.

And then we pull up our pants, and put back on our shirts. Two close calls in a night is enough.

Big Red Bear

When he pulls his car next to mine—and I’d known he was going to pull his car next to mine—he noses it into the parking space an inch at a time, pulling it to a slow stop. He powers down the windows. Turns off the ignition. The sedan’s purr subsides. He stares straight ahead into the woods beyond.

I can tell right off he’s a big, big guy. Even with his seat pushed back, he’s still filling up most of the space between where his chest and belly end and the steering wheel begins. He’s wearing a shirt with some kind of island print; there’s a forest of chest hair spilling out of the collar. He has a head of curly red hair, and a thick beard to match. Yeah, he’s a big ol’ bear, but he’s a sexy man. I watch as his hand casually rests against the window ledge. His eyes wander to the left, in my direction, but still looking at the woods. Then his neck twists to follow. Slowly, slowly, he turns his head.

Then our eyes meet.

We’re staring at each other. We don’t drop the glance. Seconds pass. Men don’t look at each other like this from the safety of their cars. Not for this long. We’ve passed that point at which we were supposed to stop, and we’re bathing in each other’s gaze. He wants me. I can see it in the hard glittering of his eyes.

I want him, too. My dick’s hard. I break the gaze and, as my hands paw and press at my meat in my shorts, I stare down at it. There’s no mistaking what I’m looking at, for him. When I lift my head up again, his mouth is twitch. I nod at him. He slowly, slowly nods back.

I get out of my car. Elongate my lean, lanky body. There are other men in this lot, this park-and-ride off the parkway, all looking for the same thing. I can feel their eyes on me as I thrust forward my pelvis and arch my back in a traveller’s stretch. I’m wearing only a thin T-shirt and a pair of shorts. My feet are in an almost oversized pair of high-top Converse. Knowing that the solitary men in their spaced-out vehicles are staring, I stride around the front of my car, past the sedan, and around to its passenger seat. My long, hairy legs swing into the car and I close the door behind me.

“You’re hot,” are his first whispered words.

I look around. We’re in the corner of the lot; there’s no one who can see what I’m doing. I unbutton my shorts. Unzip. Hike down the elastic of my trunks and pull out the dick. It’s hard—the head is full, the skin taut and shiny. There’s already a bead of pre-cum on the slit. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck!”

Unconsciously, his hand rubs over his body. He pulls up his shirt. His belly is enormous. He’s a Santa Claus of a man—and it suits him. He’s like one of those idealized bear cartoons that big furry guys caption with annoying titles like Woof! My Future Husbear! The chest hair at his collarbone is almost a snowy white, but the further south it goes, the more fiery red it becomes, until it blends in with his flame-colored pubes. I’m turned on. “Show me,” I tell him.

Instantly he snatches down his pants. His dick is rock hard. It’s not large by any means, but it’s fat, and inviting. I look around. Then bend over. He smells clean, as if he’s just gotten out of the shower. I inhale deeply, getting high on that scent of soap and musk and slimy cock spit. “Fuck!” he says. It’s his only vocabulary. “Fuck!”

This park-and-ride is too busy for me to continue deep-throating him for very long. After a minute I come up for air. He stares at me. “Fuck, man,” he says. “Where did you come from?”

I grin and shrug.

“No, seriously . . . men like me don’t get to have sex with men like you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, I mean really, I. . . .”

I didn’t come out to heal anyone's self-esteem issues today. Men waste so much fucking time deciding they’re unworthy of each other. “You’re hot,” I tell him, meaning it. “I want you. You’re hot. Just fucking enjoy being a hot guy.”

He’s staring at me, judging my words. “Yeah,” he says at last. “You’re hot too. Damn. You’re hot.”
I’m stroking. Showing off for him. Wrapping my hand around my knob and squeezing. “I want to be in a bed with you,” I breathe.

He looks around. It’s instinct, in places like this. We’re both always looking, always turning our heads. Always aware. It’s too dangerous not to keep an eye out.

He rubs his hand over his belly. It’s big, and round. He looks almost pregnant, but like I said, it suits him. It’s a turn-on, and he can tell by the way I swallow, the way I lick my lips, that he’s my type. I’m producing pre-cum like crazy. It’s always been an issue with me, and one that many partners have found pretty messy, but he’s digging it. He reaches out with his thumb, presses it into the slit, and comes away with a glob on his thumb tip. He offers it to me. My lips reach out and snatch it off, then close around his thumb so that I can suck on it.

That’s what we do for the minutes after. We’ve both got our pants open, our cocks hard and out. I stroke, and he scoops the long strings of pre-cum from my slit and feeds them to me. I devour it hungrily. He’ll vary my diet from time to time with his own modest output. His pre-cum is sweeter than mine. It’s little dabs of moisture, especially compared to my obscene fountain of cock slime. I eat it all, though. I eat it from his thumb, I eat it from two of his fingers, three, four, when he shoves them all in there.

“Cum for me?” he begs. And I do, almost on demand. He has his hand below my cock head as I spurt and ooze. He catches the enormous quantity of cum in the cup of his palm. His fingers are sticky with the stuff; his hand can barely contain it.

He raises his hand to my mouth. I’m ready. My jaw is wide open, my tongue outstretched. The fluid slides from his hand directly into my throat in one massive glob; I almost choke from the sudden impact. But instinct kicks in and I gulp it down. He shoves his hand in my mouth, making me lick clean his fingers, making me scrape my beard over his palm. Then it’s gone, and I’m still shuddering from the throes of climax. My legs are turned in and clenched together, my dick is squeezed to purple in my fist. I’m covered with sweat. And I have drying cum and spit on my face, and breath that smells like sperm.

“Are you a porn star or something?” he asks. I laugh. The spell’s broken. I zip up and button. “No, really,” he asks. “Are you?’

“Nah,” I tell him. “Just a guy.” I nod, and thank him, and wheel my long legs out of the passenger-side door.

“A hot one,” he says, as I round the car.

I take the compliment, wave, and drive away.

The Collar

“Hang on a second,” I say, as we’re walking down the aisle, between supersized pails of cat sand on one side and stacks of small cans on the other. I pick up a box of Fancy Feast. Might as well, while I’m in the Petsmart, right? I’m pretty sure we’re running low at home.

At first I tuck it under my arm. Then I realize I’ve got someone to do the work for me. “Make yourself useful, boy,” I suggest, and toss the box to the young guy at my side.

He catches it, and hugs it to his chest, his face turning a deep shade of pink. It’s endearing on him.

In my head I think of him as the Runt, still. He’s got a name, but I don’t use it much. Because the guy is younger and slight of build, to his face I call him boy. Son, sometimes. He loves the nicknames.

Even now, I’m certain he’s flushing because I’ve used one on him. The people around us probably think of him as my son—and he technically could be, admittedly, by his age alone. We don’t look alike, save for a certain leanness in the body. He’s shorter, and small, slight in the shoulders. Soaking wet, probably most of his hundred and fifteen pounds would come from the halo of dark brown hair in a bush around his head. He’s smooth where I’m scruffy, dark where I’m fair. His eyes are big, wide, and brown, while mine are blue and narrow.

Still. The human mind takes immense comfort in being able quickly to classify and sort what its owner sees. When one passes a well-dressed older guy walking along the aisles of a pet store with his hand pressed between the shoulders of a much younger guy, one automatically thinks, dad and son taking home some food for the cat.

One doesn’t think, I wonder if that older guy is going to being fucking the brains out of that boy in another twenty minutes?

I’m guiding him, though. I know this Petsmart well—it’s the closest pet supply store to my home, a mere half-mile away, across from the Starbucks where I’ll hang out in the afternoons. I take him past the banks of cat treats and down the aisle in the direction of the pet groomers and the doggy daycare studio in the back. Then, the pressure of my hand a constant against his back, I steer him down another side aisle.

It’s when we stop in front of the display of dog collars that it suddenly dawns on him why we’ve made this detour, and that it wasn’t merely because I was nearly out of Fancy Feast. He looks at me, swallows, and then laughs a little. Once he realizes I’m dead serious, the laughter fades.

While he stands there, nervously watching me, I study the collars, look at the Runt, and then finally reach out to lift one from the display. It’s a deliberately-humiliating choice, made of narrow pink leather studded with some kind of sparkly plastic imitation gems. When he looks at it, then at me, I can see in his eyes he’s worried I’m serious. I put it back.

I go through several other collars until I make my choice. It’s a sturdy brown collar, broad and made for a big dog—or a smallish male. I tug at it as if to test its give and its strength, pretending I know what I’m doing. It’s all for display, though. He’s watching my hands surround the leather, not saying a word, but no doubt imagining where that collar will be in just a few minutes.

I exchange vague pleasantries with the clerk as we check out; I don’t need a back. Without a word between us, we head to my car and drive down the road, past all the industrial installations and the self-storage warehouse and into the quiet residential neighborhood beyond.

We’re parking again at the far end of the train station commuter lot. It’s dusk on a winter’s Friday night, long enough past rush hour that most of the cars have emptied out. I pull into a space in the darkest corner, far from the road, and turn off the ignition. “Get in the back,” I order him. When he opens the car door and still has the Fancy Feast in his hands, I add, “Leave the cat food.” He puts it on the floor.

I join him in the back, after I’ve pushed up the front seats to give us as much room as possible. “Clothes off,” I tell him.

He scrambles to obey. Through his curls he looks at me after he’s shucked off his T-shirt and hoodie all as one. He pulls off his scrubby gray socks, one after the other. They join his top on the floor of the car. Then he loosens his oversized belt and shimmies out of his jeans. I stop him before he yanks off his underwear. I pull down the elastic band in the front. His small cock, erect and already dripping with pre-cum, snaps out like an obscene jack-in-the-box. He lifts his hips as I pull off the blue briefs from his narrow waist.

I’ve got the collar in my hand. It’s still stiff and unworked, so I run it as a tight curve through my fingers a few times as he looks at me with wide eyes. “Is that for me?” he asks at last.

It’s rhetorical. I don’t have to reply. He knows what the answer is. He’s just filling the quiet with words. I’ll be filling it with his cries, soon enough.

“Lean forward, son,” I tell him. My hands loop around his slender neck. The leather’s edge scrapes a trail down the nape until it rests where I settle it. I’m pulling the leather through metal, gauging where to close it. When it’s finally fastened, it hangs a little loose. There’s enough give for me to slip all four of my right fingers through and pull his face to mine. “Whose are you?” I whisper to him.

He hesitates for a second. I can tell his eyes are glistening with tears. They’re not tears of fear, or of terror—though maybe there’s some of that, mixed in. No, those are tears of gratitude. This stupid gesture of mine, unexpected and so far from any of the tame experiences he’d had before me that it’s practically alien, this cheap collar that’s put me thirteen dollars out of pocket, has resonated so much with his needs that he’s trembling with gratitude. “Yours,” he whispers.

He’s brimming with emotion. I’m not having any of that. Roughly I shove him back until his head is nestled where seat and door meet. We don’t have much foreplay, the Runt and I. He’s there to be fucked, and I’m clear that I regard him as my hole, whenever I pick him up from home and drive him somewhere. I’ve got a tube of Astroglide in the console between the two front seats. It’s been chilling in the winter weather for over a week. It’s cold on my fingertips. I know it’s got to be torture for his hole when I jam my index and third finger inside him roughly.

I’m so hard that it’s difficult to pull down my pants in the cramped confines of the car. I manage, though. I’m desperate to shove inside him. “You ready?” I ask.

Another rhetorical question. I don’t really give a shit if he’s ready or not. I can feel the lips of his hole separating from the pressure of my cock’s head. The Runt is super-tight. Not so tight that he can’t be opened, though. He’s trying to be a good boy, a quiet boy here in this silent parking lot, but the pain of my cock tearing into his hole is almost too much; he’s panting and gritting his teeth and letting out cries of pain and anxiety and of deep, deep need. My dick, steel-hard and driving in, shows no remorse.

But I’m not the only one who’s hard. His own dick is pointing in the air and letting loose another glob of pre-cum. His thin legs are flailing in the air, trying to buck me off, to keep me from entering too deeply. At the same time, though, he needs it, and he knows it. His hands are clutching to the sides of my thighs, not letting me go. Pulling me in.

It doesn’t take me long to reach bottom—though it probably seems like an eternity to him. I feel my cock nudge against that spot of his deep within. His cock jumps. I pull out slightly and then shove against it again. Once. Twice. Three times.

That’s all it takes. Everything conspires against him—the collar, the darkness, the pain of my dick. Pressure against that point pushes him over the edge, even if he hasn’t touched himself. He lets out a cry that’s more anguish than pleasure, and then his cock begins unloading all over his midsection. I hold still while he gives in to the sensations of orgasm, feeling his tight hole spasm around my meat.

When his legs stop moving and I feel his body relax a little, I begin moving again. He groans at the discomfort of it, so soon after his climax. “My turn,” I remind him. “It’s what you’re here for.”
He doesn’t protest.

We fuck for over an hour. His three climaxes come at random, when I batter his prostate with the head of my dick at a certain angle. Mine are more deliberate, more calculated. Both times I grab his collar and pull him up so he can see my face as I shoot. I make him stare into my eyes and see what his hole is doing to me.

Only when my dick stops throbbing and swelling and letting loose the seed it’s delivering do I lower him by the collar back down again.

I make him remove it once his clothes are back on. At my instruction, he tucks it into the glove compartment. I can tell he wants to take it home with him, though. I can tell he wants to wear it when he’s alone, and to think of me, and the damage my cock can do.

Perhaps another time. For now, that collar is mine, something I can keep in my back pocket for when I need it. Just like I keep him.

Another Round with the Runt

The runt’s hole is a sloppy little pucker, red and raw from my teeth, tongue, and beard. When I draw my face away from between his ass cheeks, the car’s cold air hits the wet flesh. The shock makes it contract and expand, like a winking eye.

It’s quiet at this end of the parking lot, which runs alongside the New Haven line. Every few minutes a Metro North train roars by, obscuring his whimpers as it rattles along on the tracks and stops at the station this parking lot services. A few commuter cars still pepper this remote section of the lot, so far away from the station that it would take a brisk three-minute walk to make the train. By and large, though, this time of night the lot is deserted. In the back seat of my car, parked in a pool of shadow, we’re invisible from anyone who might drive by. Invisible from the banks of apartments that rise four stories above us, over the empty lot. Invisible from the world.

I’ve been eating at the runt’s hole for a good half-hour. He’s been loving it. His cock is dripping pre-cum like a faucet. I’ve told him not to touch his meat. His skinny legs are up in the air, sometimes resting on my shoulders, sometimes resting on the back of the driver’s seat. Most of the time, though, his completely naked body is curled into as tight a ball as possible. He’s conserving heat. He’s pushing up that hole, exposing it, giving me the maximum possible access. He wants more. He wants my face buried in that private place, and he’d take it forever, if we had world enough and time.

But I haven’t picked him up from his folks’ place to munch on his butt indefinitely. It’s awkward in the back seat, even with the seats pushed up, but I perch my left leg on the seat as my right squats on the floor. I raise myself up and align my dick with the boy’s hole. I use my right hand to spread a glob of spit over my meat. My left hand cups, then covers his mouth, pressing down firmly. I feel his head make a dent into the seat cushion.

Then I cock my head, like a curious bird. Ready? I’m asking him silently.

The runt begins to nod. I’ve already anticipated him. Before he’s given assent, I’m driving in.

I hadn’t planned it, but an Acela speeds by at that moment. The high-speed Amtrak is a rush of noise and wind that shakes my car as it passes—or perhaps it’s the runt’s attempt to escape the cock stretching open his asshole. He’s still yelling when nothing’s left of the train’s passing but a few still-vibrating signs, and the memory of an echo. “You want me to stop?” I ask him.

No. He shakes his head no, panicked I might pull out. His eyes have a watery film covering them that reflects what traces of light seep into the car.

“I could pull out and drive your scrawny ass home,” I drawl. “Is that what you want?”

No. He shakes his head more desperately, trying to dislodge my fingers. “Do it,” he says. It’s cold enough in the car that his breath spirals up toward me, like smoke. “Fuck it,” he begs. "Fuck that hole."

The little runt brings out the sadist in me. I shove the rest of my meat in, without mercy. My hand claps down on his mouth to muffle the rest of his yell. His legs flail helplessly in the air to either side. For a moment there’s panic in his eyes, but ultimately he knows there’s a price to pay for all that pleasure I’ve given him. He’s paying, now.

Soon enough, it starts paying back to him. Mere seconds after I’ve hit bottom, his body is shifting and accommodating me in ways that only come from an experienced hole. Then he starts nodding. Yes, he’s saying without words. Yes. Yes.

It’s okay to remove my hand. I pull it away from his mouth. His breath is ragged and heavy when I take one stroke, then another. His hole is the warmest thing on the earth at that moment, and my dick is growing harder and hotter by the second.

The third stroke triggers something in him. He’s already breathing like he’s run a four-minute mile. Now his chest heaves, and his ass bucks so strongly that I almost slide out of him. His hands grasp at my hips, though, keeping me in.

He’s shooting. The first spurt arrives with such velocity that I can hear it hit his skin, like a tightened drum. He shakes and quivers through the rest of it, loud in his pleasure.

I haven’t even touched him yet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. I can hear him trying to moisten his lips. "Oh fuck. Sorry."

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I came too quick?” It’s more of a question than a reply.

“Do you think we’re done here?” I ask. I pull my dick out, all save for the head. That I leave inside, marking my place.

“No,” he says, in a tiny voice. Even in the silence, he sounds like he’s speaking from the bottom of a well.

“No. . . ?”

“No sir,” he amends.

“That’s right, son,” I tell him, pushing him back into the seat. Then I drive back inside him, hard. I’m awarded with a cry of need that borders on distress as once more I split open that hole.

I was just getting started.

Runt

This kid is hot. He’s a runt—small and skinny. But he’s a beautiful runt. His eyebrows are dark and thick, and give the impression he’s got a long way to go, to grow into them. His hair’s a mess, but only because I’ve been running my hands through it, just to enjoy the sensations of its length flicking across the sensitive webs of my fingers. His features are dark. He’s told me his mother was Brazilian. But his skin is pale and white, almost ghostly in the dark.

When he kisses, he keeps his eyes closed. He looks like he’s dreaming.

We’re in the back of my car. It’s not night, but it’s dark. Pitch black before six in the evening. I’ve been to this parking lot before with the Latin boy in the truck, last autumn. There’s almost no traffic coming in and out of the entrance from the sleepy neighborhood street nearby. That suits my purposes just fine.

I’m driving into his hole. He’s kicked off his pants, but he still has on a pair of thick, woolen socks. His thin legs wave helplessly in the air as I enter his hole. He’s tight, but I can tell from the way his chute opens and cedes to my stiff meat that he’s been used before. “That’s it,” I whisper to him.

He sighs. He’s happy. His legs crook and clasp around my back. His eyes are still closed as he surrenders his mouth to mine. My perch on the back seat is tenuous at best, but I make the best of it, and push in as hard as I can, until he gasps, and opens those big, brown eyes.

When he looks at me, it’s through a haze of lust and sensation. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. I don’t really give a shit. “You like that?” I ask. The words seem obscenely out of place as they break the stillness.

“Yes,” he says. He licks his lips and swallows. “Dude, don’t stop.”

I have no intentions of stopping.

I’ve complained before about Grindr in my area—that app that’s become the ubiquitous hookup tool for gay men with smartphones and GPS has never really worked for me. Once I get into Manhattan, I’m barraged by hookup requests. But out in the ‘burbs, where I live, it’s not of much use. I’ve had more hookups through Instagram, a photo-sharing app, than I have through Grindr. (And it’s not like the arty snapshots I post on Instagram are racy in tone, either.) But this guy contacted me through Grindr only a couple of hours before. He had no photo. He told me he had no place to fuck. And no car. It was the trifecta of loserishness, basically—and then he sent me his photos.

The first was of himself sitting on a sofa, head bowed to show off his thick dark hair. He wore nothing but a red plaid shirt and a pair of tighty-whities. His pale legs were crossed, and made even whiter by the proximity of the flash. Then he sent me a photo of his face. He’s a beautiful boy. So I said yes.

Fucking in the back seat of a car is the compromise we’re making. He doesn’t care. He just wants the cock. My cords are around my ankles, my boots still on. I’ve got my flannel shirt unbuttoned. It hangs around his hips and chest, as he jerks and twitches and pulls every bottom’s trick in the book to get my shaft deeper into his hole. Every once in a while the angle at which I’m hitting him will shift. He’ll grunt with pain. I’ll see it flicker across his face, feel his body flinch. But he doesn’t stop. Even when it hurts, he still wants to be filled. He needs to be used.

The knowledge makes me stab him hard. My dick seems to double in size. “So why can’t you host?” I ask him. “Think how hot this would be in a bed.”

The runt’s head is lolling like a broken doll. With every thrust, it bangs against the door. He’s panting slightly. His little dick, uncut and definitely a bottom’s cock, is oozing a snail’s trail across his hoodie. “I . . . live . . . with . . . people,” he pants out, a little at a time.


Lives with his fucking parents, I’m thinking to myself, but I don’t say anything. It’s not like I really give a crap. All I really care about is keeping the screw going. The car was warm mere minutes before, all the way from where I’d picked him up downtown and on the drive here, but with the motor off, its interior was growing steadily chillier and damper from our heavy breathing. The windows are fogging up, around the bottoms.

“God, you’re so . . . big!” he grunts. He looks like he’s in pain. I like that look on his face. Because no matter how much distress is causing him, he still wants more and more of it. He’s got one hand on the back of the driver’s seat, and the other helplessly clutching a seatbelt. He uses the leverage to lift up his hips and drive them against me, trying to get more dick, more sensation, more pain. His face contorts when I shove my cold fingers up beneath his clothing and twist his nipples. He looks like he needs a bullet to bit, or a wad of leather to shove between his teeth to cope with the pain. He wants it though. Every twist of his hips tells me that, every gasp and labored breath writes that story plain.

To an observer, it might look as if he’s trying to wrestle me off. He’s still trying to get me in deeper, though. His hands shove at me, but it’s so he can position me in a way he can lie more on his back. His skinny hips buck me, but not to shove me away. He’s not in control, though. I am. I drive home and hold it there, sadistically swelling my meat to make him gasp.

Too much. He’s shooting. There’s no warning. One moment he’s trying to cope with my big dick, the next he’s spilling a load all over his sweatshirt. The sensation of his ass contorting around my dick makes me decide it’s time. I’m close. “You want the load?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, eyes closed. There’s need in his voice.

“Where do you want it?” I ask. He doesn’t have much of an option. I just want to hear him say the words.

“In my ass,” he whimpers. “Please. Come in me.”

I’m closer still. “If you want this load, tell me who you live with,” I say.

"I—"

"Tell me," I growl.

“With my folks,” he admits. “I still live with my folks.”

The information’s irrelevant by now. I don’t care. All I know is that my dick’s on fire. My load gushes out almost painfully, filling the boy’s ass. He welcomes it with a smile and a half-laugh, as if he can’t believe he got exactly what he wanted. I feel his fingers scrabbling around the outside of his hole, where my dick is slopping him up. “Fuck yes,” he whispers. “Fuck yes.” Then he says the words over and over, in a soft, appreciative sigh. Fuckyesfuckyesfuckyes, until his lips make the words without sound.

The car smells like semen when I drive him home. I feel something on my shoulder. His head rests on me. His beautiful eyes are closed, dreaming again. He’s soft, and seems to weigh no more than a feather.

I let him doze. He stays there almost all the way home.