The rain’s been pelting my wind shield for an hour when I finally pull up to his suburban street. I almost drive right past him under the streetlights. The tall asian twenty-something huddles in his black wind breaker beside the stop sign. I wave. He gets in my car.

“Hey.” he says.

“Hey,” I tell him. Grindr in real life.

I have no inkling where I am. Earlier in the day I installed FakeGps on my phone, so I could set this up in the afternoon. Luckily, this guy was free at the time I would be passing through. He couldn't host, but he knew a place we could go. It sounded sketchy and dangerous. 

I agreed immediately.

He directs me down the slick streets through the night. My wind shield wipers give way to the downpour, and I can’t even make out the lane markings on the dark country roads. We get to an intersection blocked by an orange detour sign.

“It’s back there. Just keep going. There’s no other houses or anyone around for miles.”

“Okay…” I drive the car on the shoulder and around the sign. Gravel crackles under my tires. After about a kilometre, I slow down. The street ends and we can go no further. I see a construction trailer on the side of the road. It’s set up in the driveway of a small brick house. I pull into the small space left beside the trailer. As I turn off the car, my car door swings shut. He’s already gone.

I grab my phone, lock up, and chase him through the pouring rain. I can barely make out the path in the darkness.

He’s waiting at the top of the porch. He kicks the door and it flings open, loudly bouncing against the door jamb. It’s pitch black and with a step he disappears inside. I take a deep breath and follow, eager to get out of the rain.

His phone lights up the place, casting long shadows. I’m in the X-Files. The house has been stripped of all life. The only thing left are the ghostly silk curtains, forgotten and mournfully swaying over the hardwood floor in the living room.

“This whole place is going to be torn down soon,” he explains.

“Um, aren’t there usually hobos sleeping in these places?”

“My friend moved out a couple weeks ago. I don’t think anyone has found it yet. Watch your step.”

We descend the damp, carpeted steps into the basement, and shards of plaster crunch under my wet shoes. I look up. The ceiling has been bashed in and bare electrical wires dangle an inch from my face.

We turn the corner into a large room with the remains of a fireplace. This was once a cosy den. Years ago, some child must have waited here with excitement for Santa, baiting him with milk and cookies by the crackling fire. Today, the floor is covered in detritus and bits of drywall. A small roach meanders along a huge crack in the wall.

He puts his phone on the baseboard, carefully pointing it away from the window. The tiny LED fills the room with creepy shadows. Without pausing, he unbuckles and strips off his pants and underwear.

He lays back on the floor, naked from the waist down, puts his hands behind his head and looks at me expectantly. His flaccid brown penis flops down over his large nut-sack. They’ve been shaved smooth for me.

“I’ll start slow,” I tell him.

“Sure. We’ve got lots of time.”

I lay on my belly, resting my arms on the carpet between his legs. I lick his balls and taste nothing. He’s had plenty of time to shower. I take his dick in my mouth and slowly suck. I let go, and we watch it grow hard.

My own boner rubs the floor through my jeans. It feels very nice, and I hump the carpet while I suck him off. He doesn’t make much noise, but I can tell by his face that he’s enjoying it.

“Where should I cum?” he asks me.

“Right here,” I stick out my tongue, to show him it’s alright, and then get back to twisting and sucking his penis. He tightens his muscles, and it flexes and hardens. It turns me on. He’s a quiet one. I have no idea how far along he is, or if he’s enjoying it at all. I know I am. I live for this. Sucking a nice, fat cock has been my dream since I was a teenager.

“I think I’m coming,” he warns me. I feel a hot jet of his jizz shoot against middle of my tongue. It’s a nice, thick glob, and it doesn’t taste like anything. I roll it across my tongue as I gently suck him clean.

On the way back we talk. "Once I had a guy sucking on me for 20 minutes,” he relates, “and nothing was happening. But he wasn’t good like you.”

Well, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Studying anatomy and sensitivity diagrams on wikipedia. Porn too, but half the time they don’t know what they’re doing.

“When are you in town again?” he asks.

Soon, I hope.

I've been slowly polishing my stories to post them on GayDemon for your enjoyment. You can read the rest of my real-life adventures at


Pete Gentle

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