Author: Alex, from Portugal E-mail: port_pass@hotmail.com
Any feedback will be much appreciated.
This story may have non-consensual sex between males. Don't read it if you're not legally allowed to or if it might disturb you.
Part 31
As soon as I left the ticket booth, I headed for the bus stop, wanting to get home as soon as I could. At least I had my subscription card back, though the taste of the old man's cock and sperm in my mouth didn't let me forget how I had degraded myself once again.
To make my life worse, when the bus finally arrived, some ten minutes later, it had precisely the same team of driver and conductor that had raped me the day before. My heart sank when I saw their mean grins, but I decided not to wait for the next bus. After all, there were more than a dozen passengers and so there was nothing they could do to me. To be on the safe side, I sat right at the front, in full view of everyone on the bus.
Soon after the bus left the station, the conductor came to me, with a broad grin. I handed him the subscription card, avoiding eye contact. "I see you got your card back. Did my colleague at the booth take good care of you?", he asked. I looked up at him, blushing furiously, and nodded. "Good" he added, "we always like to please our customers." I sank back on the seat, with my heart still pounding, but relieved to see him move away to the next bench.
However, a couple of minutes later he walked back to the front and stood next to me. Calmly, he bent over to me and whispered in my ear "Move to the last bench, fag. NOW!" I hesitated, but decided it was best to comply, afraid that he would find some way of shaming me in front of everyone. The fact that the rear of the bus was deserted didn't reassure me at all, but I still didn't think he could possibly dare do anything really bad to me in a bus with many passengers. This time he would have to keep doing his job and couldn't go sit in the back with me and make me suck him off, or anything worse.
As I hoped, he didn't even approach the back of the bus, and just stood at the front. As I took one of the back seats, a couple of old ladies got on the bus and he collected their fares. Then I saw him chatting with a man that was sitting half-way down the aisle. I didn't think much of it, until a few seconds later, when, to my surprise, the man got up and walked towards me.
He was a short, bulky guy, with a beer gut, in his late 50s, with salt-and-pepper hair, unshaven. He was wearing a cheap navy blue track suit, with the jacket unzipped to show his hairy chest.
I immediately recognized him, though I didn't know him personally. Everyone in my neighbourhood knew who Mr Sousa was. He lived a couple of streets away from my house and owned a cheap grilled-chicken restaurant there. His reputation, however, came from the fact that he had managed to gather a small fortune with some shady deals and had established a solid position as the local loan-shark. In addition, in those last couple of years he had managed to acquire at knock-down prices the assets of some of the local wealthier families that were fleeing the turmoil of the Portuguese revolutionary period of the "Hot Summer" of 1975. Once the democratic regime started to be consolidated with the 1976 constitution, he was sitting on top of some of the best real-estate in town, which quickly regained their real value.
Oddly, Mr Sousa still kept a very modest way of life and didn't show off his wealth. He mostly wore cheap clothes you could get on any street fair and was often seen using the bus. Moreover, it was still common to find him working hard at his restaurant, sweating by the charcoal grill. The only sign of his riches were a couple of heavy gold chain shinning over the bush of greying chest-hair and several big gold rings on his thick, coarse fingers. The flashy display of jewellery was completed by a couple of gold teeth glittering on his yellowish smile as he as he came closer to me.
He waived me to move to the window seat and sat next to me. He didn't look at me, but started caressing my bare leg, sliding my shorts up to stick his big, rough hand between my smooth thighs. I was too embarrassed to even try to stop him. I looked out the window to avoid eye contact, as he savoured the touch of my silky skin.
Suddenly, he stopped caressing me and groped the crotch of my shorts. We both realised that my little dick was now rock hard. He moaned appreciatively and I sighed in despair, knowing I was being betrayed once again by my uncontrollable lewdness. "The conductor was right" he whispered, "You are a horny little slut, aren't you?"
I didn't answer and just kept staring out, even when I felt him pick up my hand and move it to his own crotch, rubbing my small fingers over the thick lump under the nylon fabric. He pulled down the waistband, then rubbed my hand on his bare manhood. This time I couldn't help looking. He already had a raging hard-on, and though his cock wasn't too long, maybe 15 cm [6"], it was so thick that my fingers didn't even come close to encircling its girth. It was striped with bulging veins and had a big knob totally encased in the large foreskin.
"Jerk me off, bitch" he commanded, hooking under his heavy ball-sack the waistband of the track trousers and the cotton briefs, to keep them out of the way. As I hesitated for a moment, he held my fingers around his turgid shaft and started moving my hand up and down on it.
When he released my hand, I kept on masturbating him on my own motion. His piss slit was already leaking abundantly, which made me hope that he wouldn't take too long to cum and everything would be over soon. I only glanced down briefly once in a while, for the rest of the time keeping my eyes on the other passengers, terrified that anyone might notice what was going on at the back. A couple of times we had to pause, when passengers boarded the bus, but they stayed at the front, and no one ever looked back. Except for the conductor, that is, who grinned at us several times.
"Good boy. You're doing very well. Go on with it, don't stop", Mr Sousa urged me. At the same time, almost as if he wanted to reward me, he slid his hand inside the back of my shorts, forcing me to sit up. His chubby fingers moved my briefs aside and made their way along my hairless arse-crack. I gasped when I felt them touch my sensitive arse-lips. I was breathing faster, and my hand was also sliding faster up and down his shaft. My fingers were now soaked in the copious river of pre-seminal juice that flowed constantly from his gaping piss-slit.
I could barely suppress a loud yelp when Mr Sousa, after teasing my anal rosebud for a long moment, at last started to push his fingers effortlessly into my eager, twitching arse-pussy. First two, then three digits slid into my inviting hole.
For as much as I wanted it to stop, my little pussy seemed to think differently, and happily accepted the intrusion, as if it resented having been neglected during the abuse I had had to endure that morning, at the school chapel and at the bus station.
The feeling of my arse being finger-fucked was sadly nothing new to me, but Mr Sousa's thick gold rings were a surprising new feeling as they slid past my bloated sphincter. The tantalising new sensation broke down any last barriers on my wicked anal lust. I found myself with my boy-cunt riding his fingers on its own, hungrily feasting on the attention it was receiving at last.
I was counting on Mr Sousa not taking long to cum, but – to my utter shame – it was in fact my own climax that came first. When he unexpectedly tried to push even deeper into my burning cunt-hole, my anal muscles immediately snatched viciously tight around his fingers and my seedless semen soaked into my briefs and the front of my khaki shorts.
Delightfully surprised by my explosion of boyish lust, Mr Sousa hardly had time to push my head down and force my mouth over his cock, before his own hot sperm started gushing out of his bloated piss-slit.
As I was about to find out, Mr Sousa not only leaked a lot of precum, but also shot a massive amount of cum. I tried the best I could to cope with the endless spurts of salty, bitter fluid flooding my mouth, but I ended up chocking on it and reflexively yanked myself away, which meant that the last two or three bolts of ball-cream ended up pasted across my face.
As he recovered his breath, Mr Sousa scooped the sperm from my face and fed it to my cummy mouth. "Swallow it all down like a good boy", he whispered. As soon as he was happy that I had eaten most of his enormous cum-load, he made me lick his precum that coated my fingers, and only then did he withdraw his own fingers from inside me. Now that my lust was spent, the retreat of his ringed fingers past my clenched anus made me squirm in pain. Finally, I still had to complete the task of licking his slimy fingers clean, once more having to overcome the repulsion at the taste of my own arse-slime.
Only then did Mr Sousa pull back his track pants and tuck in his cock. "You're a fine bitch. Stop by my restaurant and I'll pay you good for your sweet pussy", he told me, as he stood up and glanced back at me, with a wicked grin. For some reason, his final offer made me feel even more cheap and dirty than the whole act I had just been forced to perform for him.
To make it even worse, I saw Mr Sousa walk up to the conductor, exchange a few words with him, and then hand him furtively a few banknotes. I shivered in repulsion and felt tears of shame and self-loathing coming to my eyes, as I realised that I had just been pimped once more, and this time by a man that was a virtual stranger (if you don't take into consideration the two times he had abused me sexually).
I realised the bus had come to my stop, and I had just the time to run out, landing on the sidewalk with my face still flushed, tears in my eyes, and remnants of the old man's cum on my face and a wet stain on the crotch of my shorts. And, for the second time in only a couple of hours, my mouth tasted of cock and cum from a man old enough to be my grandfather.