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Now a story.
The Road Man and Me.
I had been dreaming. A warm little dream, from what I can remember, one of those cozy little dreams life occasionally grants you. Don't ask me what it was about, as all I remember is the sudden sense of loss from being taken from it. I awoke to a cacophony of shouts, bangs and the unmistakable thunder of heavy machinery that galloped through my open window.
"What the fucking fuck is that?" I slurred, pulling a pillow over my head as one might don a swimming cap in a tsunami. It was futile, and so while my anger was still coming to boil I leapt out of bed and looked out on what was causing the disturbance to my much needed sleep. There, in the street outside, was a crew of maybe half a dozen work men setting about carving open the tarmac outside my home. One was at it with a pneumatic drill, which accounted for much of the noise, while another readied a small digger. The others were busying themselves with other tasks, and interwoven through it all was the easy, shouting banter that is the preferred mode of communication in such professions, or that's how it seemed.
I glanced at my alarm clock and saw that it had only been three hours since ending my shift at the hospital. Shit, night shifts suck balls and I had just finished a month of them. I swear that they overwork junior doctors to weed out the weak. Fortunately I now had a few days off before returning to days, and this thought abated my mood enough for me to reconsider the scene from my window.
I must admit that, as a healthy gay man, I have more than once cast a lingering glance at some fit, surly builder or such like. Fuck it, work men in general kind of do it for me. I guess it's the mixture of the physicality of their work, the strength that comes with it, and the whiff of masculinity, both literal and figurative, that comes from being around other men all day. Hell, maybe throw in some class voyeurism too, the hint of transgression of stepping out of your place. Whatever, as I looked down again I saw that maybe this was not the annoyance it seemed at first.
One man in particular caught my eye. He was heaving out lumps of broken road surface from the growing gash on the street, hooking them out with a pick axe before lifting them into the bed of a truck with his large, gloved hands. He was tall, with long, thick arms sculpted more perfectly than in any gym. I watched as his muscles writhed like mating snakes under his skin as he effortlessly lifted the lumps of debris. I could see that his tanned and tattooed arms were already glistening with sweat despite the still low sun, and they resembled limbs of varnished wood as they caught the light. His hair was dark, close cropped at the sides and longer on top as a lot of guys were wearing it. Strands of his fringe matted to his forehead and I imagined brushing them away for him, of handing him a cool cloth and cold beer....
From dream to day dream, I thought as I shook myself free from the sight. A glance is one thing, but if I stood there any longer I would cross the line into perving. "Down boy!" I said to my morning wood and reluctantly headed to the bathroom.
After a precarious piss followed by a shower I dressed and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. As the machine percolated, filling the room with the warm aroma of imminent gratification, I glanced out of the window. From here the view of outside was clearer. Now I saw Mr Roadman again, but this time closer and from the side so I could see him in full profile. He was now stood idle as his mate freed more of the tarmac, leaning casually on the pickaxe. He had that kind of easy, masculine confidence that seemed to shine out of some guys. I don't subscribe to the whole "alpha male" archetype that seems so prevalent on social media, but some men undoubtly have a je ne sais quoi beyond simple physical or even sexual prowess. Sharing a joke with one of the other guys I saw his face break into a gleaming smile, his straight, white teeth popping against his tanned and darkly bristled face, and it made me want to know him more, to know how to make him smile.
The coffee machine finished working and I turned away from the window and once again back to reality. What exactly would I do? Go out there, tap him on the shoulder and ask if he wants to use my shower? This is real life, I told myself, and not some chichéd pornographic story. After pouring my coffee I went to the sitting room and switched on the TV, hoping the monotony of breakfast television would bore away the horn I woke up with. Several vapid segments and an advert break later I was still thinking about Mr Roadman, desperately resisting the temptation for just one more quick peek. I was slightly disgusted with myself. Was I that much of a gay stereotype that I was getting all hard and gooey over, literally, one of the Village People.
"You're just horny." I told myself. It had, admittedly, been a while since I'd had to time or energy to really even wank much, let alone hook up with anyone. Yeah, that was it. I diagnosed my ailment as blue balls. It was a desperate case that required desperate measures, so I looked to one of the most desperate of measures, Grindr.
I downloaded the app (I always end up deleting it), and found my old account still active. After logging in I had a look at my profile, since I couldn't remember what I had put there.
"Discreet bttm guy for fun. Can accom."
Well, that would do. While I would say I tend towards the versatile, when I'm in the mood for the kind of random, wham bam thank you man experience that would lead me to Grindr it's because I wanna get railed hard. The text along with a few decently recent pics of my torso (not bad considering how little I get to the gym), and I was good to go. Let the fun begin, I thought.
I scrolled through the profiles, clicking those that drew my eye, but nobody really stood out. As ever it was about 90% bottoms, which diluted the pool somewhat, and those few tops I saw were either close to retirement or miles away. I received a few "hey" and "more pics?" messages, some I responded to, some I ignored, but none went anywhere. Before I knew it a couple of hours had passed, so I decided to give it up and do something more productive. I could call my brother and arrange that tennis game he keeps pestering me about. With this in mind I was about to get up when my phone pinged with another message notification. Sighing, I glanced at it, expecting yet another paper cut of disappointment, and saw it was from somebody calling themself BlowmeDL20. I knew enough of internet-ese to decipher the username and, intrigued, I clicked on his profile. It had no picture, which would normally be a deal breaker, but as I said I was intrigued, so I looked on.
"Curious guy, looking for dl oral, maybe more. Rough. Top only. If am online then am looking for now."
My dick twitched reading this, and twitched some more when I read the stats he had put in. 25 years old, 6'2", muscular build, hung...of course part me was at this moment screaming "catfish" at the top of his lungs. Unfortunately for him my penis had invoked its ancient right of dictatorship, and I clicked on the message.
"S'up. You free to take a load?"
It was to the point, I admired that, and my dick gave it a standing ovation. I paused to consider how or if to reply. Glancing back at his profile I saw that it put his location just a hundred meters away. My heart beat a little faster, and after a brief battle my recklessness won and I tapped in a reply.
"Sure. Any pics?"
It was a safe enough answer. Interested, but still with a get out. His reply came quickly. It was a picture of a large, uncut, semi erect dick hanging from the open fly of a pair of worn blue jeans. One calloused hand could be seen pulling the jeans down, the dick and balls hooked over the band of his boxers. They looked heavy, like I could almost feel their weight just by looking at them. I licked my lips absent mindedly as my eyes took in this beautiful set of junk, as I imagined getting up close to it for real.
My trance was broken by another message.
"So, you want it?"
Heart thumping now I clumsily replied.
"Hell yeah, where are you?"
A moment, and then a map popped up. Sure enough, it was my street. My mind returned to the roadmen outside. It couldn't be, could it? I noticed then that the sound of drilling had stopped a while ago. I ran to the kitchen and looked out of the window. Sure enough, the guys had paused their work for a midday break. Then I saw him, leant with that perfect, muscled ass of his resting nonchalantly against the truck, his phone in one hand at his side. I watched him and tapped in my reply, my address. Nervous as hell I hit send. A second or two later he lifts his phone and presses the screen, then looks at it. A moment later he looks up and around, scrutinising the buildings on the street. Finally his eyes come to rest on my place, indeed he looks right at me as I stare at him through the window. Cognition flashes across his face and he smiles that hot, toothy smile at me. I must have looked like a rabbit in headlights because he chuckled as be raised his free hand in a wave. He then returned his attention to his phone, typing a reply. My phone buzzed.
"Leave your front door open. Be on your knees in the hallway. Now."
My heart leapt, and my dick soared. I glanced back up at him but he was already walking towards the house. Without a moment to lose I pretty much ran to the front door. I fumbled the latch off and quickly assumed my position kneeling in the hall, about six feet from the door, and I waited.
That moment was a timeless pause, as the universe takes a fresh breath. It was an age and a second and I heard the handle turn. The door opened and he stepped inside. Up close he was even more impressive. From his square jaw to his big, scuffed boots he oozed irresistible masculinity. The breeze he brought in with him carried a hint of him too, saltiness and something else. Man. He was scrutinising me too, his face a gruff mask as his eyes took in the man kneeling before him, no doubt considering what kind of man would do this with a stranger, to passively open their home and then their mouth so easily, so eagerly. It made me feel as low as I physically was in that moment. Still, I was excited to see his eyes gleam with a hint of satisfaction, and I tingled at having pleased him even that iota. What was wrong with me? That ever present nag within me persisted, but was hushed utterly as he stepped towards me.
My nostrils filled with him now, the dust and the musk on his skin smelling of salt and earth, of something basic and primal. Fuck it, he smelled of sex, or at least he did to me. It blew everything else from my mind, replacing it with pure lust. Perhaps sensing this shift in me he chose that moment to speak.
His voice was deep, a rolling baritone that I felt in my bones, his accent thick and surly.
"Eyes up and open wide." He commanded. His tone was stern but not aggressive. He had no need to threaten me, it was obvious I was no challenge to him. I complied without hesitation, my jaw dropping open for him. I looked up at him and saw him gaze down at me, our eyes meeting as his lips curled into a sadistic grin. Maintaining this hot eye contact he brought his hand up to my face and inserted two fingers into my open, drooling mouth. Without warning or regard he shoved them knuckles deep, the thick fingertips prodding at my tonsils. I could feel my gag reflex begin to respond. Realising this was some kind of test, and being so desperately eager to pass it I fought to control my breathing. I coughed a few times and tried to pull my head back from instinct, but it was met by another firm hand holding it in place. The fingers in my throat continued at their work and though I continued to splutter somewhat, and though my eyes and nose were soon streaming, I withstood the assault without losing my last cup of coffee. By the time his fingers abruptly withdrew my face was already a drooling mess, and I guessed that was maybe the point. The predatory look in his eyes was close enough to approval for me.
As he pulled his fingers out, he left the tips just inside, pulling my lower jaw open. His other hand took hold of my hair, and he levered my head back until I faced nearly upwards. I heard him hawk in his throat and I knew what was coming. Sure enough he pursed his lips and a hefty glob of spit began to descend. It was strangely cool when it hit my tongue, and felt clearly distinct from my own spit, which still frothed in my mouth. Perhaps it was my imagination, but for a moment it tasted different, too. His fingers re-entered my mouth, not as deeply as before, but enough so that he could mash his spit over my tongue and lips, and I realised that he was lubing me up.
A shudder went through me, ending in my dick and I was sure my boxers were getting messy. I felt objectified by what he was was doing, by the realisation that his debasement of me was as much about practicality as it was a power trip. I was a fuck toy for him, just one that makes lube and is warm. The thought thrilled me. I was hooked and he hadn't even lowered his fly.
That changed, though, of course. I wouldn't bring you this far to tell you yhat he thanked me for the lovely finger cleaning and went back to work.
"You'll do." He rumbled, with a small nod of the head. "Now get it out."
Almost of their own volition my hands snapped to his belt. Luckily it was a simple affair and I quickly pulled it open. His jeans were button fly, which I always secretly preferred, and I relished the pop of each one as I worked them free. His boxers came into view, they were snowy white as if new and clung tight to his body. I pulled his jeans down enough so that his full basket throbbed before me. Obviously our, for want of a better word, foreplay, had excited him too, and my heart fluttered like a courtesan's fan. Fuck, this dude was my wet dream. I think you know by now that I have a big weakness for a manly man, but throw in a guy that fucking knows that it's his place to be served by others, and I'm fucking gone. I was certainly gone then, and I think he knew it too.
He watched my face as I pulled at the band of his shorts and pulled, looking for the expression of lust and awe that we both knew was coming. I was an open book for him, a game he knew all the rules to.
The picture I had seen was only a shadow of what I now saw. It was magnificent and he knew it. At a guess I would say it was easily 9 inches, and fat like a deodorant can. I gulped at the reality of what I was about to take on, but there really was no turning back now. This dick now bobbing in front of my face would not be denied. It commanded me. I wondered at how many others had been in my position, kneeling before this man and reconsidering all of their life decisions.
He read my thoughts on my face.
"You want it." It wasn't a question. In response my mouth opened wide, this time of its own accord. The mood had fully taken me now. I knew neither of us was now fully content for this to be a simple bro-job. This man, this Adonis, wanted a cock-sucker. Not someone who gives the odd blowjob, but a needy, sucking hole that lives to be filled, a dicksleeve, a cum rag and every other dirty name I had muttered to myself as I came alone in my bed. I wanted to be that for him, and so mouth agape, tongue out, wet and ready, I simply groaned like an animal and presented myself to him.
I heard him chuckle.
"You're a needy little cum hole, aren't you?"
I simply groaned again, this time making an effort to sound, if possible, even more in need of his fat, leaking dick. I was so hungry it burned. He laughed again.
Then I felt it. The hot, wet head of his cock brushed my lips. The sensation sent waves of pleasure and anticipation through me. It had probably only been a few minutes since he had walked in, and I was I complete, broken mess for him. Just the tip of his prick had done more to me than the last five guys I'd dated combined. That hand, still tight and unyielding on my head, now guided me onto him. My lips brushed his skin, top and bottom, as I struggled to keep my teeth out of the way. Cock sucker 101. It was difficult, though. I had an ex that was maybe 8 inches, but nowhere near as thick. His preparation of me helped a little as I felt the end of his cock begin knocking at my tonsils. I willed myself to relax, and found it easier to get in the headspace I needed this time. I still gagged a little as that near impossibly thick cock head pushed into my throat, and shook in his grip, but I made no effort to pull away, and gradually, grabbing breaths were I could as he worked his meat in and out, I got used to the invasion.
Maybe it was a little bit of oxygen deprivation, but I entered a kind of trance in those following however many minutes that he fucked my throat. His cock was soon thrusting in and out easily, my body having surrendered to him the same way my mind had. Sometimes he would say something, and I would half hear him, his words dropping into my mind like stones into a pool.
"Good bitch."
"That's it, open that throat for me."
"I own this throat don't I, bitch?"
It wasn't eloquent. It didn't need to be. The dick now lodged in my throat made all the arguments. It was true. Right now and, if I'm honest, whenever he decided to grant me the honour, I would kneel for him in a heart beat, just as I was then. With a shiver I realised that he had the final say even in that, that it would be him that decided whether this was a one time thing, a lunch time stress relief while on a job, or if I would be his permanent fuck toy, always there, willing and ready to demean myself in whatever way got him off. I was powerless, and all I could do was grunt in affirmation.
"Good pig." He chuckled as he plundered my throat some more. He seemed to enjoy pulling out almost all the way, until that fat head rested throbbing just inside my mouth like an idling motorbike, before driving back in with force, seemingly intent on reshaping my gullet. His trimmed pubes would tickle my nose as he would hold me there, balls deep, unable to breathe, until the panic overtook me and I would desperately grab at his solid, unyielding thighs. When he deemed that I had suffered enough for a moment he would pull back and repeat the performance. This went on for several minutes before he somehow managed to find an even higher gear and began hammering at my throat, and I was reminded of that pneumatic drill. While not as loud, the noises we made were infinitely more obscene, a mash of grunts, gags, squelches and slaps, and his drip drip of dirty talk right into my mind.
"Fuck yeah, get ready for it, cum dump. You're gonna swallow it all ain't ya?"
Again, I knew it want a question, and simply gazed up at him with the longing we both knew I felt. I would take whatever he gave me in that moment.
I swear he pulled a few hairs from my head as he pulled my violently into him for that last, deep push that took him over the edge. My nose bent against his pubic bone as that thick cock of his throbbed, and I could feel the spurts of his load passing through it and into my throat. I didn't even need to swallow, another choice denied me by this man.
His deep breaths slowed as allowed the last of his seed to flow into me. His hands in my hair were more relaxed now, and I could imagine how he felt, that post orgasmic bliss I had bee lucky enough to give him. He withdrew his cock, it was softening but still impressive as hell, and all the hotter for being slick with his cum and my spit. I longed to lick it clean for his, and looked up imploring at his. He smiled again, that big, beautiful smile.
"Go ahead, slut. Finish the job."
Needing no other provocation I greedily lapped at his cock, sucking and lapping at every inch until he stopped me. I guess I would have carried on all day if he has let me.
"Gotta get back." He said and stepped towards the door. He turned and looked at me, still kneeling, no doubt looking a complete mess.
"Send me your number on grindr, I might wanna use you again."
"Of course...er...thank you..." Was all I could croak in reply, fuck dazed as I was. He smiled knowingly and stepped out of the house. I knelt there, breathless. Had I been dreaming?