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.