It’s been building for a week. The desire to see him. Life has kept getting in the way — either his or mine. When I got home late from work this evening though he was there on the app. I sent a one word message -free?. His reply was simplyHalf-an-hour.
The shopping district is ten-minutes walk away. There are still people coming in and our of bars and restaurants, but crucially the supermarket is closed. I’m early, so I stop at KFC and get a coke. As I sit there drinking through a straw, I wonder if somehow the other customers know. It’s ridiculous. They can’t, of course. At best they’ll pick up that I’m incredibly nervous about something, but it would need a crazy leap of logic to come up with the right answer.
When it’s time, I leave and walk a few hundred yards, scooting round the back alley and then down the ramp of the car-park. At the bottom, as usual, the gate is not fully shut. I don’t know why its always left like this. I duck under it and them I’m inside. I listen for a second to make sure everything is quiet then pull out my phone and turn on the torch. As always, there are a few cars still parked here over night. I make my way round to the stairs. An enormous metal door blocks my way but I move it slightly and squeeze inside the staircase. I don’t know where exactly the stairs go. The place is so dusty that I don’t think they’re ever used.
He brought me here, the first time. We met outside the bank and then wordlessly walked here. That was six months and five encounters ago. It should be more. Every time, I promise myself I’m going to make this a regular thing. Then I get cold feet, until the pressure builds back up so much I can’t take it any more.
I take out my phone and send a message – I’m here. He doesn’t respond immediately and I’m left standing in the dark. I stare at the unchanging screen for two minutes. Finally a there’s a ding and a message comes through – Ten mins. I fumble with the phone, turning the sound off. It’s unlikely that anyone is around to hear it, but I’m still live in absolute terror of being caught.
He does it deliberately, I think – keeps me waiting. Maybe not, maybe it’s just that he has further to come. It doesn’t matter. The truth isI like it — these moments when I wait. I spend so much time worrying about what I may and may not going to do, that I like the feeling of settled anticipation. So much time staring at other guy’s profile pictures and never quite agreeing to any of their meeting suggestions. Even walking here there was a chance that I would chicken out and run home. It has happened. Now I’m here, I know I’m doing it.
Eventually, after what seems like an age, I hear footsteps. It can only be him, but as always I’m worried if its not. I’ve never been quite sure if this is aspot. We’ve never been disturbed and I’ve never seen anyone else hanging around here. Maybe it’s just our own special place. How romantic! I wonder if he brings other guys here. He must do. I’m too much of a flake to fully take care of his needs.
The metal door creeks as he slides through. I slide my phone under the railing about eight steps up. Enough ambient light reflects of the ceiling that I can make out his silhouette.
“Hi,” I say. I’ll never not be nervous at these meetings.
He walks up to me and puts a hand on my T-shirt, rubbing my chest through the fabric. His other hand reaches down, undoing my fly and pulling my dick out, rubbing the shaft. I’m already hard for him. A second later his own trousers are open and our twin manhoods are pressing into each other.
We stand face to face for a moment, jerking each other’s cocks. Neither of us are kissers. That’s okay. He’s not my boyfriend.
As always he’s in a rush. It isn’t long before he’s pushing me down. The floor is too dirty to kneel. Instead I squat, resting my back against the stone wall for extra purchase. That allows me to crane my neck forward and he brings his dick up to meet my mouth. I take it in a hand and ease the foreskin back slightly as I start to lick it.
God, I’ve missed cock-sucking so much. It’s so animalistic — making another man hard and then making him cum. That said, I’m not an expert. I’ve never really developed any technique. He never lets me. As always, I lick him up and down just a couple of times, before he grabs my hair and tries to ram it all the way down my throat.
I gag, once and then twice, but he keeps in it and a moment later I relax. He smiles at me, a smug smile, and then starts fucking my mouth in earnest.
My hands go round to his back. He has a firm arse and I hold onto it as I service him. Truth is, he’s fit all over. Slim, but with some muscle definition. I guess he’s late twenties — a good decade younger than me. Sometimes, I wonder what he sees in me, but then I remember he probably has an army of contacts and my main draw is that I’m available and easy. I don’t care.
I love his cock. He’s bigger than me, but not by much. That’s good. Any bigger and I wouldn’t be able to take it so fully. Any smaller and he wouldn’t make me gag. As it is, he can face-fuck me so hard that I nearly throw up, but I never quite do. Instead after a minute, I need to come up for air and spit a wadge of saliva down on the floor before hungrily returning to him. This is exactly the right level of abuse and I fucking love it.
The other thing I like is that his cum is always hard won. It’s hard to measure how much time it takes, but whenever I feel like he should be nearly finished, he still works me more. He cums when he wants to, it seems, not because of anything specific I’ve done.
He suddenly pulls out of my mouth. He lifts up his shirt and I take the hint, latching myself only his nipple. He reaches round and puts a hand down the back of my pants. A moment later and his finger finds my ring, pushing against it.
This is new.
In our original contact, I offered to blow him and he accepted. We’ve never discussed anything else. This stairwell isn’t really designed for fucking and I’m even more paranoid about the noise it would involve.
But there’s no way I’m going to say no.
Except…
“You have stuff?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. I hadn’t expected this.
He sighs and I feel stupid for not having prepared. If only…His finger is still there pushing into me.
He spins me round and pushes me against the wall. My arse is now fully exposed to him. I feel his dick slide between my thighs, under my balls and his hand returns to probing.
“No!” I exclaim, urgently but still in a whisper.
“Shh,” he says. “Just like this.”
We remain like that, him dry humping against me for a minute.
“You want it, don’t you?” he finally says.
“Yes,” I reply. Obviously.
“There’s a petrol station right next to the supermarket,” he says. “I’ll wait.”
I could be offended by my place in this relationship, such as it is. No suggestion of us going together. I pull up my trousers over my erection, grab my phone and head out. By the time I’m up the ramp, the pressure in my underpants has lessened but is still not completely gone. If I was worried about what people thought of me on my way in, I’m mortified now. No-one sees me come out of the car park, but even so, I can’t shake the feeling that every knows exactly what I’ve been doing and knows better than I do what’s about to happen to me.
The lady in the garage certainly does. A pack of three, a thumb-sized bottle of lube and some tissue paper. She’s professional and rings it up without comment, but I know inside she’s laughing at me. I scurry back, looking left and right in case anyone is tracking the progress of my transgressions.
This time, as I duck under the gate, it seems like my heart is going to explode out of my chest. It’s been years since I let myself be fucked. Nearly a decade, in fact — only ever when the stars align.
He’s still there, of course. He stops playing with his phone as I return and drops his trousers again. He takes the small shopping bag off me and anticipation is mixed with mundanity as he has problems pulling the plastic wrap off the lube. He opens the condom box and pulls out a packet. He puts everything on the stairs, sitting the lube and the unopened packet on top of the Durex box like a little podium.
He drops his trousers again. In the interim, he’s gone soft so the first few minutes are a repeat of early. I squat down and get him hard again with my mouth. I’m dying to feel him inside my other hole, but he’s in no rush and I obediently continue to blow him even after he is fully erect.
When he pulls out, I stand up and he turns me round. I stand about a foot from the wall and he bends me over. I use my hands to support myself against the wall. He uses his foot to push my legs further apart and my bottom sinks lower. I find myself wiggling it reflexively in the musky underground air.
I hear him move away from me. I guess he’s making preparations. I turn to look back but from this angle I can’t see much. When he comes back, immediately I feel a cold wet sensation around my anus. His lubed fingers probe my hole. It’s sensitive and invasive. I’ve played with myself there lots, but it’s been so long that the sensation of another man’s hand feels alien.
He prepares me, but not for long. One finger becomes two and half-an-inch quickly becomes a whole digit. He curls it round, exploring the hole. I’m becoming nice and relaxed.
When he’s satisfied, he withdraws and puts both hands on my hips. He moves forward slightly and I can feel his cock push against me. The first time it’s too high and slides up my crack, but then he adjusts and I can feel it fully pushing against my sphincter.
I don’t know for sure that he’s even put the condom on. It wouldn’t make sense for him to send me for them and not to use one, but even so there’s no guarantee. There’s a big part of me that doesn’t even care. In fact, I’m trying to think of ways to let him fuck me without next time. I’ve done anal sex a handful of times in my life and never actually had a man pump his seed properly into me. Its something I want so badly.
He pushes and it hurts. I make a low ‘mmm’ sound. He relaxes the pressure, moves down slightly and tries again. It still hurts. He pushes my arse down further and gives it another try. This time, after a second, his rod forces its way inside me all in one go.
It hurts like a mother-fucker.
“Oh, shi…,” I start to shout and then quickly stop. We’re supposed to be covert here and I have no idea how far sound will travel, either up the stairwell or out under the gate. There’s probably no-one to hear it at this hour no matter how loud I am, but I can’t risk it.
He gives me a couple of seconds, but no more. The rhythm he sets is exactly that of a pole vaulter, one, two and three short steps, followed by a dozen fast ones, slamming into my arse and then one long take-off, pushing deep into me and holding it there. The increased pain makes me bite down on my lip — not quite enough to draw blood but nearly. As he fucks me, I struggle to remain standing, my arms aching at having to support me.
He starts fucking me again after the pause, now at a more sustainable trot. It still hurts, but another sensation rises. Its euphoria. I’ve felt it before when running. When I struggle through that difficult seventh mile and then suddenly I’m flying like a pegasus through the eighth and ninth. My body is suddenly awash with strange new endorphins.
It’s relentless. He’s as relentless topping me as when he fucks my face. He’s in total control and I’m just here to be used for the next ten minutes, or twenty, or as long as he needs. In a way it’s easier than blowing him. I don’t have to worry about breathing or gagging. I do worry for a moment about my legs collapsing from underneath me but even that fades and I’m just left floating.
The stairwell isn’t exactly the move versatile of bedrooms so we stay in the same basic position throughout, although his hands eventually wander from my waist to my shoulders and as my body twists up, his thrusts hit hards. It’s not long after we’ve moved like this, that a new intensity comes to his rhythms and I know he’s close. The new depth brings the pain back and I can’t help but let out a few grunts that are louder than they should be.
Every time his dick pushes down into me, I wonder if it will be the last, but it seems it never is. Maybe I’m misreading him. His stamina is remarkable, but eventually even he is overcome. He pushes into me one last time and holds it there, his body twitching behind me.
As he pulls out, he gives a ‘huh’ sound and I look round. He’s holding the condom in his hand, but its wrong. Instead of a nice pool of semen at the bottom, it’s all twisted and broke. Wet with lube and spunk, but clearly not intact. I reach round to my arse and can feel liquid escaping.
It’s a sticky, slimy sensation and somehow it feels fantastic. I’ve finally be used properly. It’s a big problem as well of course. I’ll need to get checked and that’ll be embarrassing. After all, I’m not gay. At least, not during the day.
He wraps the condom and pockets it, handing me the tissue paper when he’s done. He’s not naturally fastidious, I decide, but its a good idea not to draw attention to our use of this spot. It’s too perfect. I’ve barely started to clean up my behind before he’s pulled his trousers up and is heading out.
“Thanks. Bye,” he says. He’s always like that. The next time we’ll talk is the next time I’m feeling horny and want to be fucked.
No, not when Iwant to be fucked.
When I’mbrave enough.
Right now it feels like that will be tomorrow night, but somehow it never actually is.