The Mechanic, Again

Yesterday was five months to the day that I last visited the local woods in my town. It’s a useless place to cruise during the long Michigan winter. Not only do I object to the extremes of cold that we get here in the upper midwest, but sex hunting in that particular location is pretty useless during the barren months.

The trees of those woods grow long and narrow and straight, with no evergreens to break the monotony of those uniform trunks rising to the sky. In the winter months, when the trees have shed their leaves, it’s possible to see from one end of the park to the other through those tall and narrow trunks. Anyone attempting to drop their pants there would risk not only frostbite, but being seen. This time of year, though, when the tips of the branches are beginning to get fuzzy with the palest shades of green, there’s less risk. Those trunks become a wall, a curtain of green beyond which a constant stage of connections and separations takes place.

I’d little intention of stopping at the woods, Tuesday. I was on my way to the supermarket on its borders, though, and to take the little detour that would drive me along its perimeter was a trivial thing. I stopped only when I saw how many cars were parked along the hidden street. Aside from the occasional lone dog-walker, the only people who really visit that park are those who are hunting for something more than a half-hour’s commune with nature.

Every spring the city sends some hardy souls into the woods to mark its trails. The volunteers find some of the long trees that have fallen over the roughest of our seasons, and drag them into place to delineate the highest and safest ground. After this week’s rain, only these paths were really solid earth—the rest had turned into a soggy marsh. After I’d locked my car doors and stepped under the canopy of budding green, I had sometimes to balance along the fallen trunks so that I didn’t squelch through the two-inch puddles. As I disappeared into the trees, I heard the car door slam from one of the vehicles parked on the street.

A man was exiting the park as I entered. Our eyes connected for a moment; his studiously swung away and kept straight ahead. I could see another man further down the path, ambling along behind. I gathered by their body language, which was as casual as it was purposeful as they strolled back to their cars with an appearance of no hurry, that they’d just sexed each other in the woods. The guy I passed was far more interesting to me than the one bringing up the rear. The latter was older, bad-complexioned, and large, and carried so much of his considerable weight in his upper chest that he gave an appearance of having so high a center of gravity that a single push would topple him over.

I kept walking.

I was aware that someone was following me into the depths of the woods. I paused and pretended to be looking at a message on my phone so I could study him. He was a shorter fellow in dark work clothes and boots; his hands were stuffed deep into his pockets as he walked past, his head down. I couldn’t see much of his face, but I could plainly tell he had long sideburns with a severe finish at the bottom. When he passed, I realized he was wearing a jacket with the name of an auto shop nearby.

And I thought to myself, Fuck, it can’t be the same guy. The last time I’d visited the park, five months to the day, I’d played with this hot little fucker in the deepest part of the woods. It was him, though. I recognized the name of the shop where he worked.

I followed behind him as he strolled down the path at the wood’s deepest part. The ground beneath was squelchy, but covered with leaves branches enough to keep my feet from sinking in. He stopped on the path, hands in his pockets just waiting.

“How’s it going?” I asked, as I slowly approached him.

“Good,” he said, looking me over. There was a spark of recognition in his eye when I approached. He looked me over, from head to foot. I was wearing a hoodie atop my dress shirt, and a pair of freshly-washed jeans. The last time I’d seen this guy, he’d been in a pair of work overalls. Today he wore a pair of navy blue utility pants and a shirt emblazoned on the front with his name and the auto shop’s identity, beneath his work windbreaker. “It’s muddy out here.”

“Yeah,” I said, “Sure is.” I looked down at his crotch. “Your fly’s open,” I said in a soft voice. It pursed open like a pair of lips, and was lined by his red shorts.

“Oh yeah,” he replied, as if he hadn’t noticed. “Let me fix that.”

My hand reached for it simultaneously with his. “Let me help.”

His palm cupped my hardening dick through my jeans as I pulled out his cock. I remembered it as being thin and small, but entirely proportional for a tiny man like himself. He hissed and sighed as I manipulated it between my warm fingers.

The mechanic had a narrow face between those sideburns. He stared up at me, his face only inches from mine. His eyes bored into my own as he studied me. The last time I’d encountered him, I’d wanted to make out, though he hadn’t. Today it seemed as if he wanted the same thing. I turned my face slightly and lowered it to his. Our lips met and locked, and exerted a slight suction between them. Our tongues touched. A moment later, and we were kissing passionately. I fumbled to release my dick from my jeans and trunks. While we continued kissing crazily, his hands grabbed my dick, and then my nuts. I felt his finger digging into the already-wet tip, then stroking the sides of my balls.

“Gotta suck that,” he said at last. He squatted down, knees pointed to either side, as he engulfed my dick in his mouth. He could only get about half of it in easily. He wanted more, though, and was willing to open his throat to get it. I kept my hands on his shoulders and the back of his head—partly to keep him steady, partly because I liked the feel of his hair between my fingers. My head moved back and forth in the directions of the path, trying to spy any moving figures that might be approaching. There were none.

We were taking a chance, sexing each other on the path like that. Usually in the woods I was more accustomed to disappearing off the paths and into the trees, but the marshy earth prevented any of that. I let the mechanic suck like a crazed man, while I moaned and fucked his mouth. “I don’t suppose you have a place to go,” I wondered at one point, hoping for something more private.

“No,” he said, with what sounded like regret.

Damn. “I want to suck you, too,” I told him.

“Fuck yes,” he said, standing up immediately.

When I put my knee onto the path, I knew right away it was a mistake. I could feel the cold and damp earth muddying the denim immediately. In for a penny, in for a pound, though. I took the mechanic’s dick in my mouth and sucked it hungrily, while I let the mud do its worst. The last time I’d encountered the guy, he’d shot even before I got my mouth on him. This time, however, he was in no hurry to shoot. “I’ll keep watch,” he said, his hands in my hair. “Just suck me.”

For long moments I bobbed up and down on his dick, bringing him closer and closer. “You want my load, buddy?” he asked.

“Fuck yes,” I breathed.

“Stand up,” he ordered.

When I obeyed, he instantly put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled me down to him. Our lips met again. We made out with enthusiasm as both of us masturbated ourselves. He gasped, then growled. His hand curved into a fist that squeezed his dick until the head was cherry-red. Then his cream shot out, arcing into the air and splattering onto the earth below.

“Now give me yours,” he commanded, as he squatted down again.

His tongue flicked out to lap at the tip of my cock, where the pre-cum was flowing freely. He nibbled at my nuts, licked my taint, and finally, as I grew closer and closer, turned his tongue into a curved bowl that he inserted directly below my swollen head. It was a receptacle for the load that came pouring out, seconds later. Much of it landed on the ground, and some on his face, but enough of it pooled onto his tongue that when he pulled it back into his mouth to ingest the precious substance, it made him a happy man.

He zipped up, stood, and nodded at me. “Good to see you. Look for me.”

“All right,” was all I said, as I zipped myself. My knee, I noticed with some dismay, was thoroughly muddied, and my hand was covered with my own cum. I let him walk ahead, down the path, as I remained behind to find some tree trunk on which to wipe my seed.

He was pulling away as I finally exited the park. Once again he lifted his fingers in a salute as he passed. And just like five months ago, to the day, he was gone, leaving me with the hope I’d run across him again.