Another real encounter that I had a couple of years ago.
I’d just had one of the most intense facefucks of my life inside a bus (another story I already wrote for you guys ).
My throat was still raw, my clothes still damp with spit and leftover cum, when I got into an Uber to go home. Somewhere past midnight my phone lit up with a call from one of my sex ads.
“Hey, bitch. Want to suck?”
I knew exactly who it was. A guy who’d been calling me anonymously for weeks from one my sex ads I post on websites similar to doublelist. I’d seen a couple of blurry photos of him before, married, mid-thirties, Portuguese but with a Brazilian accent from years living over there. It was late, way past the hour when normal people were asleep. I still said yes. I have an addiction. The more I suck, the more I need the next one.
We agreed on a parking lot I already knew well. I got out of the Uber and started walking toward it. The phone rang again almost immediately.
“Where are you? You still want to suck?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“I’m coming. Get ready to suck, faggot.”
“Come on then.”
I didn’t have high hopes. It wouldn’t have been the first time this particular guy arranged a meeting and then disappeared. I stood under a streetlight scrolling through my phone when I noticed a dark Porsche SUV circling the parking lot slowly. The man inside was watching me — dark hair, thick beard, arrogant face lit up for a second by the dashboard lights. The car left the lot and sped off down the road.
My phone rang again.
“You the blond faggot?”
“Yeah… are you the guy in the Porsche?”
“Meet me behind the buildings. There’s an abandoned van back there. I’ll be standing outside. Get on your knees and suck. No talking. Understand?”
“Okay. I’m coming.”
I took the shortcut between the buildings. The deeper I walked, the darker it got. When I rounded the last corner I saw the white abandoned van parked against a low wall and the Porsche sitting a few meters away with its lights still on. I leaned against the cold metal of the van and waited.
The driver’s door opened. He stepped out with that same arrogant, confident look I’d seen in the photos. Tall. Stocky. Broad through the chest and shoulders. Hard eyes. He was wearing a dark sweatshirt and jeans, the kind of clothes that still looked expensive even in the middle of the night. He didn’t smile. He just walked straight up to me.
“On your knees, faggot.”
I dropped down onto the rough tarmac behind the van. The ground was cold and dirty. He already had his cock out by the time I looked up — thick, hard, the hair neatly trimmed, the head already shiny. The smell hit me immediately: strong male sweat mixed with a faint trace of piss. Pure man scent.
He grabbed the back of my head and pushed me forward.
“This is what you want, isn’t it, whore? To spend the whole night on your knees sucking. How many have you had today?”
“One,” I answered, mouth already full with his hard cock. “Not even an hour ago.”
“Good. Then your throat’s already open. Suck mine now. Take some more cum.”
He shoved himself into my mouth in one hard thrust. My throat was still sensitive from the long facefuck on the bus, and I choked immediately. He didn’t care. He held my head in place with both hands and started fucking my mouth like it was nothing more than a wet hole that existed for him. Deep, steady strokes that forced the thick head into my throat over and over. Spit ran down my chin and dripped onto the tarmac between my knees. Every time I gagged he pushed deeper, using the wet sounds I made as encouragement.
“Swallow that cock, faggot. No complaints. Take it.”
His grip on my neck tightened. He was standing in the middle of a dark side street at one in the morning, jeans open, using my throat without any hurry while the rest of the city slept. The van hid us from the main road, but any car turning the corner would have seen everything. That only seemed to make him harder.
He kept the same brutal rhythm for what felt like a long time, occasionally pulling out just long enough for me to gasp before forcing himself back in. My eyes were watering. My jaw ached. Strings of thick spit hung from my lips to his cock every time he drew back.
“I’m gonna cum,” he finally muttered, voice tighter. “Swallow every drop, you hear me?”
He fucked my throat even harder for the last few strokes, then buried himself deep and started pulsing. Hot, thick cum flooded my mouth in heavy spurts. I swallowed it all l. He kept thrusting through his orgasm, grunting low with his head tilted back, until he was empty. Then he pulled out, stroked himself twice more, and painted the rest across my cheeks and open mouth.
“Thanks, bitch.”
That was all he said. He tucked his cock away, walked back to the Porsche without looking at me again, and drove off, back to his wife and kids, I assumed. The taillights disappeared around the corner and the street went quiet again.
I stayed on my knees behind the abandoned van for a minute longer, face covered in his cum and my own spit, shirt still damp from the earlier load, throat burning. Then I stood up, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and started the walk home.
Another night. Another straight married guy using my mouth like it belonged to him.
I wouldn’t have changed a thing.
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