Dick Dock 2016: Cocksucker

“This one’s the best.” The man’s voice is audible in the darkness. Audible, but not loud. My mouth is full of his cock; I’m grunting to myself with feral need. But I still can hear his voice, somewhere above me, as my knees grind half-painfully into the sand. “I mean, seriously good. Head and shoulders above the other cocksuckers.”

He’s talking about me, this muscle-bound man in the striped shirt.

“Let me try him,” I hear the other man say. There’s sudden heat on my cheek as the second man unbuckles his pants and unleashes his dick from the denim. I feel his hard flesh prod against my jawline.

The other man growls. “Gonna finish first.” The meat he’s thrusting into my mouth is short and squat. Four and a half inches, maybe. Fat, though. A mouth-stretcher, but not much of a challenge to swallow whole. I impale myself on it, though it barely tickles the back of my throat.

“I’m next.”

Their conversation is barely audible, but it drifts through my frenzied consciousness with clarity. Some detached somewhere, though, there’s a part of me trying to analyze the situation. Their words are so quiet—am I supposed to be able to hear them? Usually when men want their cocksuckers to get off on the praise, they say it in a boastful, obvious kind of way. Loud. Forceful. Porny. I do it to the men kneeling before me, when they deserve it. It spurs them on to even better worship of my big meat.

These men, though. They’re basically whispering to each other. I hear it. It’s audible. But I could’ve easily missed it over the occasional cry of jollity coming from Commercial Street, or it might’ve easily been muffled by the shuffle of men through the sand around me, or by the sex sounds coming from other dark corners under the dock. They’re talking almost like they’re having a quick, quiet survey of a menu at a local restaurant and trying to pick out the best dish.

My thoughts evaporate as I taste a sudden glob of precum from the man’s fat hog on the back of my tongue. He’s ready. I tighten my embouchure around his meat, and use my left fingertips to coax the approaching load from his nuts. My right forefinger and thumb make a corkscrew around the sensitive ridge of his head, spiraling down the shaft. He grunt once, softly, then lets go with a load moan that everyone in the vicinity can hear. “Fuck!” he yells. His hands grab my head and pull me town onto him. My nose grinds into his pubic hair. “Fuck! Fuck!”

There’s no doubt about who’s having the most fun under the Provincetown dick dock, this night.
His loud orgasm brings seemingly every other man cruising for sex into my vicinity. I feel the heat of men all around me, smell their strong and varying scents. I hear the sounds of belts being unbuckled, of zippers coming down. My tongue almost stings with the strong taste of the muscular man’s semen; I’m guessing he’s a smoker. Then he withdraws, strokes my furry chin, pats me on the head like a good dog, and stumbles away as he fastens his pants

The man he’d been talking to just says, “Mine.” He steps into place before me and pushes me down on his dick. It’s short. Maybe four inches. Skinny. Sucking him is like sucking a nine-year-old boy. My right hand reaches up and grabs the man next to him, who has maybe five average inches. My left hand gropes out; someone places it on a third dick even shorter than that.

Here am I, the biggest-dicked man under the dick dock that night, being forced to be its number one cocksucker.

Twenty minutes before, there’d been nothing going on. I’d passed only three lone souls beneath the support beams of the quiet dock before I settled into the shadows at the far end. It’s a quiet week in town. Even the harbor seems subdued, with the water settled and sleeping between high and low tide. For what felt like the longest time I’d waited and watched as men had tiptoed down the wood steps from the access road, and tried to make out their features in the streetlight before they’d ducked beneath the wooden floor of the deck above and merged with the gloom. I’m wearing nothing but a dirty tee and a pair of sweat shorts and sandals. No underwear. My hand had been down the front of my shorts the entire time, stroking myself, so that my hardness was apparent beneath the thick jersey.

When a cruiser would walk by, I’d use my thumb and forefinger to outline the length of girth of my meat; there’s enough light reflecting from the deck’s spotlights on the sand for someone to get the gist of what I’m trying to sell, here. But for the longest time there were no takers. No one was trying to do anything with anyone. Just wandering, back and forth. No action.

You know me. If anything, I’m a catalyst. So I wait until I see something I like. He’s a tall black guy with a good build. At first he’s cagy about his interests; he stands in a neutral place on the other side of the passageway the support beams create under the deck, midway between another cruiser and myself. The other cruiser moves closer to him; the black guy waits, then moves away to a place ten feet beyond, on the opposite side. Another cruiser places himself in a diagonal, opposite. Like chess pieces we move, one at a time, slowly, reconfiguring ourselves until the pattern of desire becomes apparent. When finally I follow the black man to the far end of the dock, I’m confident I’m the one he wants.

But I guess it’s not my dick he desires. When I pull down the elastic of my shorts and let the erection within spring out, he ignores it and pushes me roughly to my knees. He fumbles with his shorts and jerks them down to his knees. I reach out and grab for him. If it takes some cocksucking to get the action down here started, I’ll do it.

The black dude is a little bit of a disappointment, though. He’s maybe four and a half inches, and not very thick at that; worse, he basically is in my mouth for all of ten seconds, hammering away at my mouth like it’s some kind of living Fleshlight. Then he ejaculates a quarter teaspoon of sperm, pulls out, and strides off.

Not much of a blow job, but it gets the action started, just as I predicted. I try to rise to my knees, but a leather daddy takes his place wearing a harness over his bare chest and a pair of jeans already unbuttoned to cup his balls. I try to stand up to be on equal terms with him, but he’s not having it. His hands grab my shoulders and shove me firmly back onto the sand. This dude’s got a tiny dick too, a four-inch thumb with a round knob at the end—but he’s also got needs, and I’ve got a wet mouth for him to sink into. After him came the muscular dude in the striped shirt, then the little boy dick, which I suck off in an expedient fashion. Its owner is loud in his gratitude, and bends down to reward me with a sloppy kiss. He turns out to be a handsome gray-haired older man in expensive summer wear.

“I want a taste of that,” says another guy, who immediately bends down to taste my mouth with his tongue. He’s a handsome fucker, this one. Lean, redheaded, wearing a t-shirt with cut-off sleeves that proclaim his love for Boston. His kiss is fucking electric. His light beard grinds against mine, and he lifts me to me feet so that his arms can encircle mine. My shorts drop to my ankles; his hand grasps my right butt cheek and gives it a firm squeeze before his index finger probes my hole. Fuck yes, I automatically think to myself. This dude could get whatever he wants.

What he wants is head. I’m back on my knees against sucking his dick, a solid five uncut inches. My tongue slobbers over it, darting out to lap at his furry balls. I’m so hungry for this ginger’s dick that I’m humming to myself happily, unconscious of the cock-starved noises of self-satisfaction that I’m making as I lunge back and forth to take him. I feel his hands on my head and his fingers traveling down my back, reaching for my ass, as he curves over me and reaches for my hole.

He’s not long, but fully erect, the kid has a head that mushrooms out. I withdraw to stare at it, then look up and into his eyes. “That’s a beautiful dick, sir,” I breathe.

He stares back at me for a moment. There are men all around us, crowding in. Hands reach out to tug at my head and grab my attention away from this stunner. More hands reach for him, pulling at his nipples, lifting his shirt, trying to take his dick away from my mouth. There’s even another man on his knees beside me, trying to edge me out of the way. There’s a maelstrom of attention on the outskirts, with the two of us the quiet eye at the center.

“Come with me,” he says at last, as he helps me to my feet. He pulls down his shirt and waits as I attempt to pull up my sweat shorts over my raging erection. Then he takes my hand and pulls me away from the crowd. They collapse on top of each other in a frenzy as we leave them behind.

Together we walk to the very far end of the dick dock, where there’s a deeper cavity at the back than the rest of the slip’s length. We’re alone here, just this lean man from Boston and I. There’s still sex going on thirty feet away, but no one’s grabbing at us, no one’s trying to divert our attentions away from the other. “You like my dick?” he asks.

I nod. “Oh god, yes.”

“Then suck it, cocksucker,” he says.

I descend to my knees once more. He reaches into his pocket, simultaneously lowering his pants as he pulls out a bottle of poppers. He bends over and thrusts it under my nose, using his thumb to close off my right nostril.

What am I going to do? I can count the number of times I’ve sniffed poppers on a single hand—or just my thumb and index finger, really. But he wants me to sniff. So I inhale deeply. The acrid chemical scent stings my nose in rings as it travels to my lungs. I hold it for a moment, then exhale. He moves the bottle to the other nostril, this time using his thumb to close off my left nostril. The top of his other hand holds my head steady. “Sniff,” he orders. I inhale deeply again.

The poppers cause some kind of very short-term memory loss. He’s shoving his cock deep into my mouth as I’m trying to get my breath. My mind is half panicking, thinking to itself, why do I feel like I’m passing out?! and utterly forgetting that I’d inhaled the man’s poppers only seconds before. The confusion passes quickly, though, and soon I’m back into the rhythm of pleasing this man. I arch my back, lean into him, and suck him to the root.

His cock is slick with my spit when he pulls it out again, a few minutes later. “I fucking love your mouth,” he growls at me as he ruffles his palm over my hair. I pant, eyes aglow at the praise. “I need to shoot. You’re going to swallow?”

I nod. I know my job. Our eyes lock briefly before he pulls my skull onto his meat again. He fucks my lips like he owns them. His thick mushroom head opens the back of my throat as I grunt contentedly to myself and allow him to sodomize my mouth as he pleases.

He doesn’t utter words at the brink of his climax, but I can tell when he’s coming. His cock ejects a warning jet of precum, thick and sweet and salty all at once. His cock swells; his balls retract. He lunges into my mouth with a barely-suppressed holler, then lets loose what has to be multiple days of unsatisfied need. My mouth floods with the stuff. It’s more sour and astringent than I thought it would be from his precum, but I let it lie, acidic and tangy, on my tongue and in my cheeks until the last drop drains.

“Your turn,” he says. I manage to swallow the mouthful of seed he’s just blasted into me before his lips close on mine. My hand jerks furiously at my dick. Seconds later, my load erupts into the sand below my outstretched knees.

He lowers his shirt and pulls up his pants. “See ya round, I hope,” he says curtly, before nodding at me and wandering off.

When I get home, my knees are red and abraded from having been ground into the sand by all the men expecting me to suck their dicks. More grit covers my shins. I have to empty it from my sandals and wipe my feet on the mat before I can enter my rental. Even then, I still have to take a shower to get the sand completely off me.

Yeah, I had the biggest dick at the dick dock, that night. But I also swallowed more of it than anyone else.

Dick Dock 2015: Transition

The week I vacation in Provincetown is one of transition. When I arrive, the boys flocking to the daily Tea Dance are the twinks, the party boys, the thin little things with curly locks and tight clothes and disdain for anything much beyond the tips of their pretty little turned-up noses and their designer drinks. The Saturday I leave, however, is the official start of Bear Week. Thursday is really when the town’s population starts to get heavier. Furrier. The tight Capri pants give way to bulky cargo shorts, the dainty flip-flops to athletic socks and combat boots. By week’s end there are fewer smooth pecs and a lot of hairy expanses of chest. More nipple rings. More tattoos. More testosterone.

Under the dock on my last night, I can already tell the difference by who’s cruising. The silhouettes against the lit beach are broad-shouldered, taller, stockier. I’m seeing fewer chins and a lot more beards.

But there are a few hold-ons among the twinks. One of them starts following immediately when I reach the bottom of the steps down to the sand and turn the sharp corner to duck under the dock above. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me. Our eyes meet. I take in his slightly scruffy chin, the blond hair, his open dress shirt, the moonlike luminescence of his pale chest. He nods, ever so slightly, then simply falls into step with me. We pass a half-dozen men lurking the shadows, slouched against the pillars supporting the wood planks above. The sand sides through my sandals and cools my toes as we shuffle through it to a quiet place past the clusters of men huddled together. I lean back against a girder, and turn to him.

He stares me in the eyes. I feel his palm cup my shorts. They’re soccer shorts, made of a synthetic material. I’ve worn them around town all day with no underwear beneath. Nothing but a cock ring, to show off the bounce of my package and the outline of my head beneath the sleazy fabric. He seems surprised at the warmth of me. I feel his fingers travel the length of my hardening meat, then the release of elastic as he pulls the shorts away from my hips and down to my knees.

“Yes,” I sigh into the night. The kid grasps my cock firmly in one hand. The other he curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss. He’s a good kisser, this one. Young, eager, and hungry for attention. Our lips wrestle for dominance; he seems determined to prove to me how good a kisser he is, however, so I let him take control as he sucks my tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth.

Finally he pulls away. Our eyes lock once more. The kid must be something spectacular in the light. Pity I’ll never see him again. One by one, he takes my nipples into his mouth, suckling at them until they’re tingling with blood and desire. Then he drops to his knees.

I hear him unzip his own slacks. I can see a flash of white briefs before he yanks them beneath his balls. The white dress shirt he’s wearing falls from his shoulders and dangles halfway down his back, suspended where the sleeves are folded at his elbows. Is he a waiter just off work, I wonder? He needed cock so badly that he couldn’t wait to change out of the clean formal shirt and dark slacks and good shoes? It’s a moot question. He pushes me firmly back against the wood and steel and wraps those soft lips of his around my cock.

He’s eager to prove himself here, too. I can tell by the way he looks up at me that he’s begging for my encouragement and praise. I run my hands through his sandy blond hair and let it ruffle between my fingers, and nod. He closes his eyes in gratitude and deep-throats the rod before him for long moments before looking up at me again to measure my enjoyment. He doesn’t need to look. He should be able to tell by the sounds I’m making, the guttural Christs! and the growled Good boys!

My grunts are attracting a crowd, yet again. They’re keeping their distance for now, which I appreciate. I want this boy to myself for a while. I can see his fist furiously beating up and down at his waist. A second later, I hear him breathing heavily and choking, as if my dick’s too much for him.

Then he’s up on his feet, scrambling to wipe the sand from his knees and shins.

“Suck me,” I urge.

“I just came. Sorry,” he says, zipping up. He does a half-assed job of trying to yank his dress shirt up and over his shoulders again. “You’ve got a great cock, though.”

“You’re through?” I ask, a little astonished. The kid hadn’t been sucking for more than a couple of minutes.

“I’m done,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Sorry, dude.”

There’s been a large bear standing in the little group around me. The second he hears the kid make his apology, he elbows him out of the way. No—he basically tackles the kid to the ground to take his place.

It’s almost cartoon-like in execution. A few years ago, I took one of my cats out into the back garden of my old house. She saw a squirrel that had climbed to the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. The cat took off running, launched herself five feet into the air, and body-slammed the squirrel so thoroughly with one shoulder that both animals fell down to the ground. The fence shuddered from the impact. The squirrel was unharmed, but stunned; the cat had knocked the wind out of herself and seemed a little surprised to have connected with her target. Eventually the animals slunk their separate ways with an unspoken agreement not to mention the incident again.

That backyard encounter is what this reminds me of; the kid goes sprawling into the beach with an audible Oof! while the bear’s knees hit the dirt and send up a spray of sand I can feel on the underside of my balls. The bear’s huge. He’s so tall he couldn’t stand up straight underneath the dock, and broad as a linebacker.

“This cock is mine,” he announces in a deep bass.

Nobody contradicts the guy, least of all me. Even if I hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve been afraid to. The kid who’d been sucking me picked himself up and dusted himself off as he vanished toward the light and the street. Meanwhile, I can feel the new mouth kissing my balls and the shaft of my dick.

“Fucking beautiful,” the bear announces. He’s not shy, this one. “Mine.” He sounds proud of himself, like a five-year-old bully who’s claimed the prize toy on the playground.

“So get to work,” I tell him.

Instead of obeying immediately, there’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then I hear wetness, followed by what sounds like his teeth clacking together. Combined, the auditory input leads me to only one inevitable conclusion. Oh Christ, I think to myself. He’s taking his dentures out.
For years now I’ve had guys offer me gum jobs, as they call them. They’ve always promised me they’re the ultimate in pleasure, but somehow I’ve never been enticed enough to give them a try. I’m kind of a captive audience now, though, and what the hell. It’s my last night in town. Why the fuck not?

I’m almost dreading what it’s going to feel like when I feel his mouth clamp down around me. But you know what? It’s not that bad. After a minute or so of him slowly sucking up and down my shaft, I can’t really even tell the difference between the gum job and a regular blow job. Which makes sense, really; most guys don’t use their teeth on my cock, anyway. (The ones who do get sent home immediately.) The best wrap their lips around their incisors. The sensation between a pair of gums and a pair of lip-wrapped teeth isn’t all that dissimilar. So after a very short period I forget it’s a gum job at all, and relax into it.

The bear is a better cocksucker than the boy had been. No contest. The boy might’ve been hungry and eager, but the bear just knows what the fuck to do. He’s stroking the sides of my nuts, tickling my hole with his knuckle, going deep and then dragging his lips up the shaft to make his mouth into a warm and sloppy pussy for my cock. “I want that load,” he announces loudly, the words made indistinct by the wet inches and the lack of his dentures. “You’re gonna give me that load.”

“Yeah,” I moan, pushing down at my hips so he can suck as much of me as possible. “I’m gonna give you my load.”

It doesn’t take long. It’s one of those lengthy, gradual orgasms that seems to begin as a humming, crescendos into a chorus, and ends with my body shrieking its own wild aria. I bang my head against the steel girder behind it, but I don’t care. With so much pleasure, I’m not going to feel the hurt.

The bear swallows every drop of it, then nurses my dick to get the remnants. “Now that’s how you suck cock,” I announce.

He’s fishing into his pocket again, under cover of the night. It’s a moment before he can say, “Fucking A, dude.”

I pull up my shorts. They barely restrain my still-hard cock, but it’ll be a minute or two before I’m back on the street at the public sees me. It’ll subside.

Twink week to bear week. I feel like I’ve had it all in the course of a single blow job. At least I’m ending the vacation on a good note . . . with my first gum job, to boot.

Dick Dock 2015: Camp

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Dick Dock 2015: Get It Done

So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.

It’s just a little much on my nerves.

I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.

Get.

It.

Done.

So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.

There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.

Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.

There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.

A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.

I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.

I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.

I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.

They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.

As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”

“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.

Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.

I just nod. I expect him to get it done.

Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.

Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.

The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.

The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”

I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.

Button-Down

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Pedestal

There’s a party going on in the distance. Spotlights flail to the beat of a thudding drum and bass, sending their columns of light criss-crossing into the night sky. Orion rules the black night sky; one of the jewels of his belt blinks more brightly than the others. There’s a scent of ocean water on the breeze.

I’m in the darkness, hidden away from the party lights, the video screens, the brightly-illuminated dance floor where hundreds of men gyrate in skimpy outfits. I can hear it all. The raucous laughter, the shouts, the whoops of happiness when the song changes to something familiar. No, where I am is shadowed, unlit by any light that’s not reflected multiple times before finally easing the last, weak parts of itself at the nether end of nowhere where I roam.

There are a handful of men here. Our eyes flash and glint, locked on each other, as we pass. I’m in no hurry to pick. I’ve got time. My hands are stuck deep in the pockets of my shorts as I stroll along the dark, open spaces. In a corner, behind where the staff have piled a stack of lounge chairs, someone is noisily sucking cock. A crowd is gathering, one or two men at a time, where the action is. I stroll by and glance at the man on his knees, his mouth wrapped around the shaft of an older guy in board shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt. The man’s shirt is open. Someone’s hand reaches out to run over the velvety texture of silver chest hair. Another reaches out to tweak his nipples.

Men crowd around to try to get in on the action; they hope they’ll have some of the sexual good fortune rub off on themselves. Failing that, they hope to cop a feel, to see something hot, to get service themselves from the cocksucker. It would be easy for me to crowd in and partake.

I don’t, though. I’m cocky enough to believe that I don’t have to go to the action. I prefer it come to me.

So I stand at a distance, leaning against a rail by the walkway. For a few minutes I watch the men come and go. They nod at me, take their measure of my height, judge the bulge in my shorts where my fingers idly drum. More men crowd in the area where the cocksucker’s working. None of them are getting more than a handful of chest hair, but they crowd in, hopeful. I maintain my stance, keep my place, and wait.

I don’t wait long. A short man wearing a full leather uniform strides by slowly. His skin is as dark as the night itself; he’s wearing Ray-Bans that he grasps by the temple and tips down so he can stare at me as he passes. The guy’s gone to some trouble to deck himself out in gear. He’s got the cap, the halter, the collar, the leather pants. Armbands squeeze his big biceps so tightly they look like they might burst. He’s musclebound—that’s the word for him. No taller than five-foot-four. Bulges in all the right places—and in some places I didn’t know could bulge. The guy doesn’t just work out daily. He works out around the clock.

He nods. Raises his sunglasses once more. Saunters down further and leans against the same railing as I. When I look over, he’s looking back. Of course he is. And he’s got his hand resting on his crotch. When he squeezes, I stand up and stroll to his side.

“C’mon over here,” he murmurs, jerking his head in the opposite direction as the small crowd. No preamble. No conversation. He just cuts right to the chase.

I like that in a man.

There’s another stack of deck chairs in another corner of this darkened area. It’s easily three, maybe four feet high. The chairs are laid flat upon each other to make a barrier of sorts. When he takes me by the hand to lead me behind the enclosure, I’m surprised. Not at the fact he’s taking me somewhere private. I’m surprised at the gentleness of his touch, of the intimacy of his soft fingers wrapped around mine.

We’re alone now. He drops my hand reluctantly, then reaches out and rests his palms on my shoulder. I feel his touch, warm and steady, as it travels down my chest, my stomach. They stop at my waist and grasp it firmly. He kneels before me.

I think I know what he wants. My hands reached down to unbutton my shorts for him. My dick’s already hard and trying to burst out. But before I can undo them, I feel myself losing my balance. Suddenly I’m aloft as he uses his grip on my waist and his position to hoist me in the air. For several moments I’m confused, but I try not to wiggle; it looks like an awfully long way down.

It’s only a second or two later that he deposits me atop the stack of deck chairs. Then, and only then, do his hands release me and go for my button and zipper. He yanks down savagely to free my cock. It flops out. The zipper’s teeth bite, not too painfully, into my scrotum. Then he leans forward, almost at mouth level for him, and engulfs my rigid cock between his lips.

“Fuck,” I say aloud, forgetting for a moment I’m supposed to be in a dark and quiet corner. But the position he’s put me in is the opposite of private. I’m visible to everyone in these secluded shadows. I’m higher than them all, on a pedestal of deck chairs, with a leather-geared black man going at my meat like a starving dog. What are people going to crowd around, that kind of scene, or an everyday cocksucker on his knees? The crowd begins to come to me.

From time to time the leather man grabs my face and pulls it down and forward so he can kiss me. The men who are beginning to gravitate to us start growling and making grunts of approval when we kiss. The man’s tongue invades my mouth, reaches its very recesses. He’s not the gentlest kisser . . . but he’s thorough. A couple of bolder individuals try to step up and take a handful of my dick, or run their hands over the black man’s body. He’s not having any of it. He’s not rude when he pushes them away, but he’s firm about it; I’m his territory, and he’s not intending to cede it in the least.

His determination to keep his space erects an invisible wall, like glass, three feet on either side of us. Two dozen men crowd around to watch the action, but they don’t move in any further than that. The muscle man makes a show of sucking my cock. His hands are small in size, so when he grips my meat and squeezes, it looks enormous in comparison. My cock is engorged, its mushroom head flushed and ballooned to capacity. The man lewdly tongues the slit for thick, sweet globs of my precum, using it for lip balm. Then he runs those lips up and down the shaft, making certain that the crowd can see the white cock he’s claimed for his prize.

I’m turned on as much by the voyeurs as I am the blow job. I let my head loll back. I groan. I take off the stud’s cap and wear it for my own, tipped to the side. Then I run my palms over his shaved head, enjoying the sand-like sensation of the faintest stubble beneath them.

When I shoot, it’s loud and noisy. He feels my body heaving and perhaps hears the quickening of my breath. He gets enough warning to back off and wrap his right hand around my shaft, so that he can beat me to orgasm. The load splatters across his face. He nods at me, then reaches up and wipes it off his face. Making certain the crowd is watching, he then licks it off from between his fingers. Finally he wipes his hands on his chest. I can hear the men watching us murmur in approval.

Like a gentleman, he helps me down from the stack of chairs. Once again he grabs me around the waist as I lift myself up, then with dancer-like grace, he deposits me lightly on my feet. I’ve never felt so manhandled in my life. He reaches up, removes his cap from my head, and places it back on his own. He’d hooked his sunglasses onto his pants pocket at some point during the head job. They go back onto his face and make him look mean. Impassive. But before he leaves, he flashes me a quick grin.

The crowd disappears around us as we ease our way out from behind the stack of chairs. The show’s over. I saunter back over to the railing slowly, aware that men are looking at me with speculation. But I’m not ready to play again. Not yet.

Will I recognize the man among the others in the daylight? I don’t know. But I know I’ll be looking. I know I’ll be hoping that our glances lock with recognition—validation of a few minutes in a dark corner with every eye upon us.

Poolside Encounter

It’s the one day of my week that’s as advertised: morning sun blazing in a sky of deep blue, cabana roofs rippling in a gentle breeze, waves lapping gently at the concrete edges of the pool. Attendants have set out row upon row of deck chairs that only now are gradually filling. A rolling cart near the central walkway holds hundreds of beach towels folded neatly into rectangles. The temperature is warm, bordering on hot. The breeze is cool. I’m wearing shorts and smell of sunscreen. There’s a magazine of crossword puzzles in the bag at my side. A novel on my lap. I’m here to stay for a while.

There’s a parade before me, to distract me from the pages of my book. Some of the bodies are bronzed and built; the men strut confidently in their trunks as they pad with wet feet across the boards to their chairs, where they spread out the beach towels to lie upon. Some of the men have flown down from frigid places, as I have. Their bodies are paler, their shoulders caught in a perpetual hunch to ward off the cold. They’ve all come out to enjoy the warmth, though, to sit and ogle each other, to chat, to read. To relax, and forget their lives for a little while.

I don’t even know how long I sit there in those morning hours, digesting my breakfast and letting the warmth gradually work the seemingly permanent chill from my muscles. This, I think to myself, is all a vacation should be about.

After a long while, I have to pee.

The restroom’s indoors, past the nook where the attendants stand gossiping as they collect used towels for the laundry. Inside, the air conditioning blasts the light layer of sweat from my skin. I walk down a narrow hallway and push down on the latch that opens the restroom door.

The men’s room is small, but well appointed. Urinals stretch to the left when I step in; three toilet stalls are immediately behind them. Each has marble partitions, and wooden shuttered doors that reach down to the shiny, reflective stone floor. There’s an orchid sitting in the center of the sinks, across from the stalls. Wooden spikes curlicue out of the peat and up beyond the mirrors. Someone could seriously put out an eye on one of those things.

At the urinal I yank down the waistband of my shorts. They’re made of a sweatpant fabric, and stretch easily. I’m just finishing my business when another man comes in. He’s built like a bulldog—stout, muscular. His eyes are wide and blue, his hair a buzz of auburn on a suntanned head. He’s shirtless. His pecs are bulging. He steps up to the urinal closest to the door, angles his hips at the porcelain, and stares straight ahead.

Or not quite straight ahead. When I let my waistband snap back up and turn to pass him as I walk to the sinks, I can see his eyes tracking me. I’d only taken a quick glance at him before, but when I’m at the sink I study him a little more in the mirror’s reflection. He’s a hot little fucker, this one. Five foot five, five foot six, maybe. Round, built ass. Metal rings glint from his fat little nipples. He’s got his hands positioned around his dick like he’s aiming . . . but there’s no noise. He’s not pissing.

I’m deciding what to do when the door opens again. Some other guys intrudes into the silence, talking on his cell phone as he heads to the urinal I’d recently vacated. I prolong the washing of my hands, soaping them up thoroughly, rinsing them again and again as I observe the pair in the mirror. Phone call guy is oblivious. He’s just peeing and talking away, getting his business done and completely bypassing washing his hands.

The shirtless guy, though, continues to stare straight ahead. When the guy entered making his call, his stance closed in slightly, became more alert. As the stranger exits, though, he relaxes. Pulls away from the urinal a little bit. Glances over his left shoulder, in my direction.

Time to act. I ball up the paper towel with which I’ve been wasting time, walk back to the urinals, and stand next to him. I tuck the elastic of my waistband beneath my nuts. Start pulling on my meat. When I turn my head in his direction, his own head turns. Our eyes meet. We nod.

He steps back from the urinal, just slightly. I follow suit, dick in my hand. Now he faces me directly, pointing his cock in my direction. It’s not long—maybe five inches—but it’s fat, that dick. When I reach out to grip it, feverishly hot in the palm of my soap-scented hand, it’s like gripping a baseball bat. He grunts when I squeeze. Nods. I want that dick as much as he wants me to have it.

I jerk my neck in the direction of the first stall. My erection still flopping as I walk, I stride inside it. When he follows, I push the door shut behind him. No one’s going to see us in there. The partitions connect to the floor. There’s no crack beneath the door to peek under. I let my sweat shorts drop to the marble floor, discard them, and sit on the toilet. He in turn steps out of his swim trunks. He’s naked in front of me save for his sandals.

We’re thinking in sync. When my mouth opens, he thrusts forward and fills it with dick. The dude tastes good. He’s been in the pool, I’m guessing by the faintly chlorinated taste of his skin. But that chemical taste is rapidly replaced by the all-organic tang of his precum as it begins to ooze in thick globs onto my tongue. In and out he thrusts, using my lips and mouth as his personal pussy. He grabs my hands and pulls them up to his chest, where he coaxes my fingers to pinch his tits. Beneath the soft flesh I hit the metal of his piercings. He grunts again, then growls as he pistons his meat more fiercely into my mouth.

Someone opens the restroom door. We hear it close. The noise doesn’t stop us, nor the reality of the intruder just on the other side of our partition. Whoever it is can’t see us. They can’t stop us. My eyes water as the man seems determined to puncture my gullet with his stiff rod. While my left hand continues to torture his nipple, my right cups his balls. Moves between his legs. Starts to finger the crack behind it.

The move drives him wild. He’s yanking me up and dropping to his knees. The sounds of someone washing hands at the sinks right outside our door cover up the greedy slobbering he makes as he gobbles down on my cock. The fucker deep-throats it expertly to the base, lets it pop out of the tight ring of his throat, and then goes down on it once more. I’m trying, more or less successfully, to suppress my groans of pleasure. While he sucks and slavers, he grips his own meat more tightly than I dared. He squeezes it hard. Chokes it, really, until it turns purple.

I sit down on the toilet again. My turn. Eagerly he shoves his cock back in my mouth. I let one of my hands caress his thick, shaved nuts while the other explores his ass. He’s more than willing to widen his stance and give me access. I continue sucking while I squeeze his muscular butt. My finger roam back into his crack. Nudge at his hole. Start to edge their way in.

It’s the last bit that pushes him over the edge. He grabs my skull with both hands and yanks my face down on his dick. I feel my cheeks fill up with his cum. It seems like an impossible amount. I must look like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. After a long, long time he backs off. He’s still letting my lips rub the crown of his head, as the last bits of cum dribble out.

When he pulls out, I swallow my prize. It’s slightly sour stuff, but I’m still hungry for it. He watches me gulp it down, then grins. “Thanks,” he says. One of his hands instinctively reaches out to caress my head. He ruffles the hair, grins again. “See you later, maybe.”

I nod. My head is still swimming. The entire encounter has lasted maybe all of five minutes. I wait as he swings open the stall door and steps out; I shut it closed again. I myself wait until I hear the restroom door close and his footsteps vanish down the hall. Then I pull up my shorts—though the fabric doesn’t do a thing to conceal the boner still pronging out to my right—wash my hands once more, and make my own exit.

I pass him on the way back to my own chair. He’s with another man, allowing the guy to reapply sunscreen to his back. Boyfriends? It’s possible. He’s wearing sunglasses now, but I think I clock his head following me as I pass.

Back at my chair, I adjust my pants, pick up my book, and settle down. It’s still warm. Still sunny. This, I think to myself. This is what a vacation should be all about.

Hole

It’s a chilly morning and my breath unfurls in frosty curlicues before me. The sun’s on my face as I walk toward the man’s apartment, however, and I’m still toasty from my car. I’m a little surprised to find him sitting on the building’s steps in gym shorts. His legs are spread, his smile broad as he recognizes me. He’s got one hand thrust into a lightweight jacket pocket. The other holds a cell phone. He lifts his chin in greeting, says something in Spanish to the person on the other end, then ends the call. “Come on inside,” he says.

This neighborhood is filled with apartment buildings like this. They look like single-family residences from the outside, once inside they’re a warren-like complex of tiny flats crammed into every available space. I let him maneuver around me in the tight stairwell once I’m inside, so that he can lead me down into the basement. There are three white wooden doors at the bottom of the steps. He opens one with his key, and escorts me in to a clean, surprisingly sunny residence. I pull off my jacket and toss it on the sofa as I glance around. There’s a tiny kitchenette, and a sofa where he’s tossed a Playstation controller, and a large television hung on the wall. Before I get a chance to look at more, though, the man puts his hands on my hips, and pulls me to him.

Our lips meet. The guy kind of looks a little bit like a brute. His shoulders and broad, his chest deep and developed. His Latin features are hewn rough on his face; his eyebrows are broad charcoal smudges. But his kisses are light. Wet. Soft. His mouth tastes sweet, like honey water.

While he holds the back of my head, refusing to let my lips pull away, his free hand unbuttons my shirt. I kick off my sneakers as he stares hard into my eyes. When I put my palm to his crotch, I feel the hardness there. For a split-second I worry that my hands are too cold from the raw morning. But he grinds forward at the pressure, and uses his wandering hand to grab the small of my back and yank me closer.

The rough treatment makes me let out the smallest of gasps. He hears me, though. He knows I like it. His hands move up to my shoulders, and push me down.

He helps me pull his shorts to his ankles, letting them and his underwear drop in one smooth, swift motion. His uncut cock is dark, chocolate-colored. The sheath covers almost the entire head; only the slit peeks out. Already it’s glistening. When I open my mouth wide and take the six inches to the root, he grunts.

Within seconds, my saliva lets my lips glide back and forth along the whole length of his shaft. I feel him shift from foot to foot as he spreads his legs and lets his balls dangle more freely. Then he seizes my skull and yanks it down, roughly, until his cock head is plugging my throat. I’d taken a deep breath at the appropriate time, though. I’m prepared to relax and let him savor the sensations as he impales me for a long moment. When I back off, though, and his cock slithers out and drops heavily from my lips to my chin to point to the floor, I’m gagging and gasping for air. My eyes sting from the tears he’s drawn with that thick, dark ramrod.

He likes the sight of those tears, too.

He enjoys watching me as I dive once more for my prize. Holding me at arm’s length, tilting my head as I suck and slobber. The man forces me to look at him as I go deep on his meat. His dark eyes bore down. Though I feel water filling mine every time he stretches my throat, I strive my hardest to keep from blinking. Only when I’m awash in my own tears do I finally squeeze my lids together. Rivulets stream down my cheeks.

When he moves me into the bedroom it’s nothing more than a rush of blur and motion—a few seconds of deprivation and an empty mouth. Then I’m lying on his high queen-sized mattress, rumpling the primly-made bedding, and he’s straddling my face. One of his big hands grabs the back of my head like a basketball, yanks it up, shoves a pillow beneath. Several times he shoves it down, craning my neck upward, until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t give a shit about my comfort. He’s just trying to get my open, begging mouth at the perfect angle for his dick. That dick is his only concern for the moment. His dick, and the wet mouth that he’s using.

And I’m not so much sucking him anymore as getting the hole fucked. I keep my jaw wide and my throat loose and my teeth wrapped with my lips. I want to stay out of his way as much as possible, basically, as he pounds my mouth. He bones it like pussy. He plants his palms into the mattress above my head and rests his weight there. His knees are splayed far to either side. The bony parts of his hips bruise my cheeks as he thrusts hard, in and out. My nose is full of the sharp, musky smell of his black pubes. It’s my responsibility to gulp breaths when I’m able—not his to facilitate it. I know what I’m there for.

I can tell he’s getting close when his precum begins to flood my mouth. It’s salty, slightly sour, slick enough to make the passage of his inches even faster and smoother. I feel his hips buckle, his legs twitch. Then he drives in to the back of my throat, smothering me with his pelvis, grinding those hairs so hard into my skin they abrade. I feel his meat swell and subside, grow and shrink, several times over until he’s finally dumped the entire load.

When finally he pulls out I’m both choking and trying to get air into my lungs, but I’m gracious enough—and proud—not to let my distress show. I swallow that thick, pungent semen and lick both it and his precum from my lips. I blink away the moisture from my eyes, and wipe my nose. He climbs off me, his mostly-hard dick swinging like a pendulum as he hops off the bed and pads into the bathroom.

I still have on my shoes, my pants, my shirt. Nothing came off. All I have to do is crawl off the bed and make sure everything’s tucked in, check my hair in the mirror. He emerges from the bathroom and tosses a lukewarm washcloth at me. While I wipe my face with it, he studies me. Taking it back, he comments, “Pretty good cocksucker for a white boy.”

I nod, grateful for the praise, then turn to go. “Hey,” he says, grabbing my forearm with a strong grip. Then he pulls me into another kiss—just as deep and passionate as before. “Come back sometime,” he whispers, looking into my eyes again. I nod again, and grin. He guides me to the door, undoes the chain locking it, and lets me out.

It’s still cold outside when I trip down his steps and onto the sidewalk. I can still see my breath on the air. But my hands are a little warmer, my face a little redder, and my throat a whole lot more sore when I make my way down the street with my long shadow dancing down the pavement before me.

This Is All I Want

“This is all I want,” are the words he says as he falls to his knees.

His eyes implore me for the permission he knows I’m going to grant. I nod. His fingers race to unbutton my jeans and tug down the zipper. The bedroom is cool. Gooseflesh covers my thighs. Each hair is a miniature flagpole atop its own mound. I clear my throat. “What is it you want?” I ask.

“Your manhood in my mouth,” he pleads. “Just to service you the way you need.”

He’s pretty. Clean-cut, shaved smooth, worked out. He’s arrived in athletic gear, as if he’s expecting a workout. I run my fingers through his chestnut hair. “The way I need?”

“The way you deserve.” My hard cock is still contained in its pouch of cotton. It’s positioned just above his face. All he’d have to do is lean forward an inch to touch it. So far, he hasn’t allowed himself to do so. “You deserve worship. You and that dick deserve a boy who worships you.”

I nod. That’s right. At moments like these I don’t have to indulge in false modesty. He and I both know we’re beyond it. I could deny him. I could pull up my pants and let him dream forever of how close he came to getting what he wanted.

But I don’t. Instead I hook my thumbs into the elastic of my shorts. My cock springs out, free of confinement. I hear the man hiss and sigh at the sight of it. “So beautiful,” he says, with the reverence he knows I crave. His fingers moves up, half-turned, half-open. But his eyes are locked onto mine. He looks like Adam, on the Sistine ceiling, reaching for the hand of God. “Please let me.”

I nod again.

He doesn’t waste a moment. I’m already half-leaning against the foot of my mattress. He pushes me back onto the bed and ingests my cock in one gulp. The length doesn’t even give him pause; I feel his throat open and take me in as if he’d been planning the maneuver for months. Maybe he has.

His eyes are closed. He’s making satisfied noises to himself as might a baby with a pacifier. His hands knead at my thighs as he nurses me like a starving kitten. Slobber is making his chin shiny. He doesn’t care how he appears. All he cares is that I feel good.

His eyelids fly open. He looks at my face as his tight lips slide up and down my meat, watching my reaction, judging his own performance. My own mouth is dropped a little, working from side to side. This guy is good. Really good. He knows exactly how much pressure I like on the head, which parts of the shaft are most sensitive. Where to give that extra little attention. Little smiles are crossing my lips. I give him the slightest of nods to continue. After a long time, I ask him, because I’m curious, “Are you happy?”

“Yes!” he responds with a rush of air to his lungs. “Fuck yes. This is perfect, you are perfect, this cock is just what I wanted.” He takes another slurp to the base, nuzzles my pubes, and comes up for air again. “I bet you get a lot of men wanting this cock.”

I nod. It’s the truth.

“So I’m just another cocksucker to you,” he says. His pupils are dilated with sexual excitement. “Just another hole for your member’s pleasure.”

I know the answer he wants. “Pretty much.”

I can smell his spit on my engorged flesh. He’s positioned beneath it, looking up at me like a supplicant. “I figured.”

“Does that offend you?” I ask. I already know the answer.

“Noooooo,” he breathes. “Fuck no! I am just so fucking lucky to be one of your holes.”

“Damn right,” I tell him.

I drag him up onto the bed, where he lies between my legs. He’s still in his Under Armour top and his sweatpants. I see his round ass shoving roughly into the mattress as he spears himself with my dick, taking it down to the base and pushing to get even more.

“Keep doing that,” I say, scratching his scalp affectionately, “and you’ll be one of my regulars.”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He pushes me back against the pillows and lets me sink into them as he, in turn, forces my dick to sink even more deeply inside his gullet. I watch as he loses himself in sucking my cock, loses himself in the raw sensations of my hard shaft sliding in and out between his lips. His pleasure in service is taking him beyond the humdrum of his everyday life, beyond fantasy, beyond all his worldly cares and regrets and worries. My cock is his present, his past, and his future. It’s all he cares about. All he needs. It’s all he wants.

My orgasm starts more as a painful itch than pleasure; it builds to a seething boil, a hot desire to rid myself of it at any cost. I grab the back of the cocksucker’s head and hold him down. His cheeks bulge; he looks up me with rheumy eyes and a red face that darkens the longer he’s deprived of air. My dick pulses and throbs and lets loose my load.

He’s close to choking, but he knows his duty. Not until he’s gulped down every drop does he allow himself to drag air through his nostrils into his starved lungs. Not until my cock subsides and softens slightly does he even allow it to slide out of his throat. Then with respectful lips he cleans my cock, careful of the sensitive bits. When he withdraws his mouth, he’s panting.

“Maybe you’d like to be one of my regular cocksuckers,” I tell this handsome man, as he looks up at me once more with those green eyes.

“Please,” he says, even more aroused at the thought of a repeat performance. “If I did good enough work, sir. Please.”

“You did amazing work,” I’m barely able to whisper. “You’ll be back.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s your cock that’s amazing, sir.”

I nod, and sigh, and relax. He’s not wrong.

Good Boy

His neighborhood is dark—almost pitch black, in fact. The closest streetlight was at the intersection where I’d turned my car behind his, a full block behind me. He turns off his car’s lights, and I turn off mine. When he steps out and into the driveway of his house, he’s a shadow against shadows through my windshield.

My dick is hard, though. My pulse quickens as I pocket my keys and follow him across concrete and brick to the front door of his split level. There’s no light above the door. No lamps aglow within. There’s just us, the cloudy night sky, and the streetlight obscured by trees, far away.

“Do you know where you are?” he asks, pausing before he inserts the key.

“No,” I tell him.

“You mean, you don’t know where on the map you are?”

I can’t see his expression. “No, not really,” I say. The route we’d taken when I’d followed his car hadn’t been long—no more than ten minutes of driving, really. But once off the main routes and onto residential side roads I’d never seen before, I’d quickly lost my bearings. I’d kept focused on the tail lights of his dark truck.

“How will you find your way home if you’re lost?”

“I’ll manage,” I tell him.

Then while I’m standing there, I remembered something from college. It was one of the first weeks of the acting class I took, the first semester of my freshman year. We’d gone through several afternoons in which we’d laid on the floor and relaxed ourself into a boneless stupor, and exercises in which we’d pretended to be fish out of water, or seeds bursting into life, or animals in a zoo. Before we could be trusted with actual scripts by real playwrights, however, the professor gave us sheets of paper a two-person exchange of identical lines, for an in-class task. The lines were fairly mundane—something along the lines of “Hi.” “Hello.” “Nice weather, isn’t it?” “I hadn’t noticed.” Our assignment, however, was to pair off and present the script to the class while enacting one of several secret scenarios the professor had given us. The class would watch while we’d speak the lines and mime a little, and try to guess the subtext behind the words.

I remember my partner and I were supposed to be a man and a woman in an elevator. I was supposed to be interested in her; she was supposed to react as if she thought I was hitting on her. Her Hi was neutral and cautious; mine was knowing. Her inquiry about the weather she made while stepping to the far end of the imaginary elevator; I said I hadn’t noticed while I tilted my head and stared at her backside as if I was too busy looking at her ass to notice anything else. I spoke one of my follow-up lines while reaching across her to push a floor button and moving too close; she replied with another of the bland sentences by flattening herself against an imaginary elevator wall. The class guessed what we were trying to convey almost immediately.

Some of the other scenes were of young lovers enjoying a picnic, or of a student trying to butter up a professor, or of a young person caring for an elderly grandparent. We all had the exact same dialogue to work with, but what the professor aimed to show us was that even when given the same material and even with the same scenery and props (which is to say, none at all), we could convey an infinite variety of scenarios in a recognizable way.

I’d met this guy only minutes before at the northbound cruisy car lot off the freeway, where after dark men looking for sex pull into empty parking spaces and wait for each other. The cold was biting, and I’d made a bargain with myself that if nothing happened within a half hour, I’d leave and warm myself at the nearest coffee shop. For twenty of those thirty minutes I’d sat fruitlessly in my driver’s seat, rubbing an erection through my jeans, while a bear in a pickup truck looked at his smartphone and snuck furtive looks my way. I’d given up on him and driven to the southbound lot, certain that he was just waiting to pick up a carpooling spouse, but he’d followed me there and then driven away almost instantly. With five minutes to go, I’d driven back to the northbound lot to see if he was there. He wasn’t.

Then the black truck had pulled up next to me. I could see the man driving—an older guy with a military cut. He was easily in his sixties or maybe even more, but he was very plainly taking care of himself. Even on this cold night he was wearing a short-sleeved T that displayed his brawny, muscular forearms. His face was handsome. He nodded at me, and I nodded back. He rolled down the passenger side window. I turned off my car, stepped out onto the gravel, leaned into the window, and nodded. “You’re hot,” he said, in a deep and masculine voice.

“So are you,” I replied.

“Follow me home?”

I didn’t need a second invitation. But then I stood there on his front stoop, while he asked if I knew where we were. And those memories of that college acting exercise surfaced. It struck me that the innocuous exchange could be interpreted in any number of ways. How will you find your way home if you’re lost?—the question of a man concerned about his guest. Or, How will you find your way home . . . if you’re lost?—the question of an axe murderer.

Read as a script, or narrated in a flat tone, it would be more than possible to find sinister overtones to the words he’d said. It would be equally possible to hear in mine the naive last words of a lamb led to slaughter. Or, as I’d assumed to that minute, he might just be that guy who didn’t want his trick banging at his door at midnight, complaining of not being able to find his way out of the cul-de-sac.

The moment’s doubt gives me pause, however. When he pushes open the door and the warmth from within rushed out, I hesitate. There are some genuinely bad people out there. I could end up in the bottom of a home-dug pit, rubbing lotion on its skin.

“Are you coming in, or what?” he says from the other side of the threshold. When I don’t answer right away, he reaches up with a hand, cups the back of my head, and pulls my mouth down to his.

Our lips pressed tight together, with our tongues exploring the back recesses of each other’s mouths, I manage to stumble inside. He holds my head tight between his palms, as if afraid I’ll try to push him away. I don’t. I need those kisses too much, and he does it so well. He smells like the shaving soap they used to use at old barber shops—the kind of vanished storefront with a rotating red and white pole in front. “Get up to the bedroom,” he growls in my ear.

I scamper up the stairs. From behind he guides me into the first door. There’s a large brass bed in the room’s center, a bedside table where a lamp burns low, and some drawn blinds. I can see now that the man is shorter than I could tell while he sat in his truck; he’s no more than five-four or five. He’s assertive enough, however, that when he shoves me back onto the mattress, I stay there. He regards me with glittering eyes as he steps back, puffs out his muscular chest, and removes his belt.

I swallow as he pushes down his jeans. He’s wearing a worn-out jock with a full pouch. Already there’s a wet spot formed on the front. I can see the outline of his hard cock beneath the gray fabric. With both arms, he shimmies out of his T-shirt. He’s a robust old man beneath that cotton. He’s in better shape than most guys half his age, and his eraser-sized nipples are already as erect as his cock. “You want to suck it?” he asks.

I look up into his face. He really is a handsome fucker, is all I can think. The man reminds me of a drill sergeant from an old army movie, all bark and needing to bite. “Oh yeah,” I tell him. I really want to suck it.

He yanks me to my feet. Pushes off my jacket. Pulls off my shirt and undoes my pants like they’re the fly-away clothing strippers yank off with a single tug. I’m wearing nothing more than a pair of white sweat socks when he pushes me down to my knees, bashes his cock against my face, and shoves the fat monster between my hungry lips.

He tastes good. Clean. Soapy, as if he’s rinsed off only a few minutes before hitting the car park. At first he holds my head still as he pistons in and out of my wet and sloppy mouth. Long, slow strokes, from tip to base. He’s only about six and a half fat inches, which isn’t that much to handle. But he’s determined to get deep in there, and he drives so far in that he’s hitting spots guys with more inches than him rarely touch. “I need this so bad, son,” he murmurs, as he strokes the underside of my beard.

Being called son by a handsome older guy hits all my buttons. My cock is fully erect, but I don’t touch it. I can feel it leap and beg for release, but still I keep my hands off. I look up at him with adoration as he fucks my mouth and throat. I’d do anything for this man, after that.

And he knows it. “You like it rough?” he asks. I nod, quick and hungry. “Nice,” he says, speculation making him drawl. “I wonder how rough you can take it.”

“Whatever you want,” I say, when he gives me a chance.

Before I know what’s happening, he’s manhandling me—a five-foot-four guy with twenty pounds and twenty years on me throwing my six-foot-three frame onto the bed. He grabs a couple of the pillows and shoves them beneath my neck and head, then straddles my shoulders. Then his dick is thrusting at my face.

I know what to do. I open up and let him have the access his dick needs. “Good boy,” he whispers. When I look up, he’s playing with his nipples. I try to reach up to do that for him, but he stops me. “Let daddy do all the work,” he growls. “You just take that dick like you’re supposed to.”

I want to be a good boy for him. I need to be a good boy. At this moment, I want nothing more than to be this stranger’s good boy, to give him exactly what he wants and needs. His meat seems to grow thicker in my gullet with every thrust. He’s pounding the back of my throat so savagely that it’s aching. I breathe when I can, trying to gasp in air in those brief fractions of seconds when he’s pulled out and before he rams back in.

“Nice,” he keeps saying, over and over again. “Good boy. Take it. Take all of it.”

My eyes begin to water. Tears are streaming down the sides of my face from the battering he’s giving me. I’m sure I’ve turned a deep red from both the cramped position I’ve had to maintain beneath his body, and from my lack of oxygen. He doesn’t seem to care, though. My mouth is just fuckmeat to him. He’s using a stranger to get his nut; he doesn’t really care about my comfort. He cares about how wet and warm my mouth is around his rigid dick, and that’s it. He cares about the tightness, the pliability. How willing I am.

And I am one hundred percent fucking willing, for him.

I can tell he’s close when he starts to grunt. His belly and chest curl around the top of my head; I can feel his arms cradling the back of my neck as he starts pumping even harder. I can’t breath at all, but I endure my airlessness for a half-minute while he finishes off with a series of animal noises. Like a feral beast, he drives to the back of my throat. He’s nearly crushing my skull. I don’t care. I want the load.

When it comes, it gushes almost directly down my throat. I can feel the heat of it, taste a little of it when I start to gag. Though his grip lessens a little, he holds me down on his dick until I’ve taken care of every drop of that semen. Then, gradually, he releases his hold. When he finally straightens upright, cracks his knuckles, and stretches, I’m still nursing on his softening dick.

He pulls it out with a plop. “Good boy,” he tells me.

“Thank you,” I say to him. I’ve never been so grateful for dick as I am at that moment. “Thank you,” I say again, as I plant several soft kisses on his pubes.

He’s done. He hands me my clothes. Dresses himself. Waits until I’m completely together before escorting me down to the front door. “So you really don’t know how to get home?” he asks.

“I’ll manage,” I tell him.

He nods. “Turn left at the light,” he growls, as he rubs my butt. “Take the road to the light after that. You’ll see where you are.” I thank him, and wave before he shuts the door. Sure enough, when I follow his directions I find myself on a section of the Post Road I’ve traveled many times before.

Turns out he was the concerned partner and not the axe murderer, after all. But damn, I loved the way he used his weapon.

Jockstrap Night

It’s Jockstrap Night at a downtown bar. Most guys are still in their street clothes. There are a few guys who’ve left their clothes in the coat check cage on the floor below. One skinny thirty-year-old is hanging around the pool table, wearing nothing but a team jersey, an worn old white Bike jock, and a pair of beat-up athletic shoes. A beard hangs down to his nipples that’s thicker and fuller than his skinny white body. The jock’s elastic is so stretched out that the straps and back are hanging loose. When he bends over to take a shot, his ass cheeks part and I can see the hair cleft they conceal.

All in all, from my spot on the bench behind the pool table, it’s a pretty good view.

My friends are dispersed around the joint. One of them is up on the rooftop, having a smoke in the cold outdoors. Another is being manhandled by a pug-faced drunk near the boot-black chair. The drunken birthday boy disappeared a half hour before into the bathroom with a seventy-year-old leather guy wearing a harness and shiny black pants. (Later he’d deny it, but I saw it happen.) So I’m by myself, feeling overdressed in my jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket and boots, clutching a water bottle, and just watching the pool players.

Then a guy sidles along the opposite wall and stands in the corner. Not just any corner. The dark corner. Every room has corners, and this bar has many rooms, but when someone here refers to the corner, you never assume that they’re talking about the nearest junction of two walls. You know they’re talking about The Corner, an alcove on the second floor where the walls are black, the lights are low, and where no one sits merely to rest his tuckus. The corner exists for one reason only.

So of course I’m eyeing this guy when he heads to the corner. There are only a handful of us in this area of the bar, and this guy is hot. I might be overdressed a little compared to the jockstrapped pool player, but at least I fit in with the establishment’s theme. This guy looks sorely out of place. He’s wearing a striped dress shirt and a pair of dress pants. His shoes are dark and shiny—and not from the bar’s bootblack. He looks like he’s wandered in from Wall Street and left his suit jacket downstairs. What is he? Israeli? Middle Eastern? His skin is olive-complected and he’s got a giant club of a nose. I find it hugely attractive.

I watch as he backs into the corner. His hands fold in front of his crotch. His head turns. He stares at me. At least, I hope it’s at me. It’s dim enough in the corner, and there’s a relatively brightly-lit pool table between him and myself, that I’m not quite able to tell. What I can see, though, are his hands as they fumble for his fly, and then the length of already-erect meat that comes flopping out.

Against my will, my mouth forms the word fuck.

For the moment I’m just enjoying the sight of this buttoned-down suit lounging against the corner’s dirty wall, of the curve of his arms as he cups his balls and cock. He waves it around, still staring at me. He’s enjoying showing it off, and I’m enjoying watching.

The pug-faced shirtless guy ambles back into the pool table area, sees prey in the corner, and veers toward the guy. Instantly the suit folds his hands over his cock, turns his back to the guy, and ostentatiously ignores him. Like a rebounding eight ball, the shirtless dude wanders over to me. I laugh tolerantly as the drunk attempts to find my nipples beneath my shirt, and push him caroming in another direction.

Once peace has returned to our side of the room, the guy looks over at me again. Even in the gloom I can see his dark eyes glittering in my direction. I stand up, and prepare to slide over to the corner to join him.

I’m barely on my feet, though, when another interloper intrudes between us. It’s a guy holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers, and he walks right up to the guy in the striped shirt and attempts to grab his crotch. My guy reacts like he’s been branded. Still clutching his crotch, he strides away from the corner with the brisk steps of a man accustomed to striding down Manhattan’s windy streets on winter days, and disappears.

For a moment or two I seriously consider decking the cigarette guy.

It’s not necessary, though. Not even a minute passes before he’s back. I don’t hesitate this time; I don’t want to be interrupted again. I walk over to the benches in the corner, sit my ass down, spread my legs, and look up at him as he rounds the corner. He unzips. Out comes eight inches of cut cock. I can smell the slight musk of it, feel the warmth from several inches away.

That doesn’t content me, though. I want it down my throat. It’s a goal of his, too; he rests one hand on my forehead and tips it back so that I can see him staring down that impossibly long nose into my face. His other hand pries open my jaw, and pulls it down all the way. I grunt with gratitude as he slides the length of his meat into my mouth. Clutching my head like a sex toy, he pulls me down and down until I’m nearly choking on the entire length. He holds me there firmly so that my chin scrapes against his balls and my nose is abraded by thick pubes like wire bristles. He holds me there until I’m gasping for air, then releases me.

When I look up at him again, tears sting my eyes. My expression is of sheer gratitude.

Encounters in the corner don’t last long. There’s a guy who comes around and breaks things up on a periodic basis. This guy isn’t looking for an all-night affair, though. He doesn’t want to kiss, he doesn’t want romance. He wants someone to choke on his dick, and tonight I’m the lucky cocksucker. He stands back and watches as I slobber up and down the length of his dark meat. I encircle the girth of it with my thumb and forefinger, and draw the tight circle up and down the length as my lips travel back and forth. The extra stimulation draws from him an appreciative grunt. He starts to grind his hips as I continue to suck.

I’m confident enough in my cocksucking skills to know that with most guys, if I’m determined, I don’t need more than a couple of minutes to bring them off. I know exactly how to pick up on a man’s body cues and up the tempo, or increase the stimulation. I’ve got a great mouth. It’s had a lot of practice over the years. It’s not long before I can taste the pre-cum oozing from the tip of his cock and making my mouth even more slippery. He’s close, and he knows it.

When he’s about to unload, he tries to pull out. I’m having none of it. I worked for the load. It’s mine. He owes it to me. I grab him by the nuts and yank him savagely back into the deepest recesses of my throat as he starts to spurt. And now that he’s shooting, it’s a huge, huge load. It’s seems like a week’s reserves of sperm have built up in his nuts, and he’s juicing my mouth with a half-cup of the stuff. I swallow mouthful after mouthful of it and wonder if christ, it’s ever going to end.

But then, too soon, he’s done. Without a word he nods at me, folds that spongy dick back into his pants, and retreats. Something of a small crowd has assembled behind him while I was busy there, watching us go at it. Like a popping soap bubble, they expand and scatter in every direction as I wipe my mouth and stumble back to my chair.

My two friends and the birthday boy join me a few minutes later. “Anything going on?” they ask, when they see I’m back by the pool table. They’re assuming I haven’t moved from that spot during the half-hour they were gone, of course.

I don’t disabuse them of the notion. “Nope,” I say, chugging down my water. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

I let them interpret that as they will.