I had hit a dry spell.
Mike was down in Montgomery, visiting his daughter and new baby grandson. Plus, my pretty boy Todd had been canned from Bobbing Buoys, the marina restaurant. My waitress of the day claimed it was for “lascivious behavior”.
It took a little prodding, but ultimately the server leaned into the booth, looked right and left over her shoulders, and whispered her understanding of the events. She suggested Carla, the assistant manager, had walked into the cooler to inventory the produce. She came face-to-face (or should I say butt-to-face) with the backside of Tim, the sous chef. His trousers were bunched around his ankles.
She paused her story telling.
Naturally, I wanted to hear the details. In fact, I could feel that familiar stirring in my taint of an impending boner. “And?” I cocked my head and whispered back in a conspiratorial fashion.
She continued, “I've heard Todd was bent over stacked crates of iceberg lettuce and Tim was, was, well...”
“Laying pipe?” I queried.
She nodded, but didn't elaborate further. As she walked away, she added, “You didn't hear it from me.”
I finished my black and blue burger and chugged the last inch of my Miller High Life. I thought about ordering a piece of pecan pie, but remembered that my primary care doc had advised knocking off a few pounds.
I shoved a twenty under the empty beer bottle and headed for the lot.
I hadn’t even made it to my F-150, when I decided to change my afternoon plans. Fertilizing the fescue could wait. I needed some cock.
Ten minutes later, I was backing the pickup into a shady parking spot and facing the Franklin Park boat ramp.
Things seemed dead. There were two other F-150s and a Tundra, all three parked diagonally with boat trailers. A lone sedan with a kayak rack was illegally parked parallel to the water’s edge.
I decided to give it fifteen or twenty minutes. If no other cruisers circled by, I’d just pack it in and head over to Tractor Supply.
I cracked the passenger window an inch and lowered the driver-side glass fully. The crisp, clean air of an early October afternoon wafted in. I thought about taking a short siesta, but noticed a loden green Subaru Outback nosing down the entry road.
There was no hesitation as the vehicle moved past, nor tapping of brake lights. It looked like my dry spell would continue.
Then the Geek Mobile nosed into a parking space six or seven down from mine. Like a prairie dog, I perked up and looked toward the driver. Due to the distance and glare, I really couldn’t tell if the driver was male or female, let alone whether he or she was showing any interest.
After what seemed like hours, a lanky fifty-something guy exited the Outback and walked to the rear hatch. He looked to be around 6’ 1” or so, thin and fit. He could have been in an Eddie Bauer ad. He sported an olive-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His khaki shorts were of the 1970s style, terminating at midthigh. Lastly, he wore wooly-looking socks under clunky hiking boots.
He lifted the tailgate and extracted a desert camo boonie hat and a walking stick, completing the REI frequent buyer look.
He headed toward the inland trailhead, showing no obvious interest in my truck or me.
“Darn,” I thought.
But, then he hesitated. He bent down and fiddled with the laces of his left boot. As he rose, he casually looked my way and momentarily cupped his crotch with his free right hand.
Ah, the universal cruiser’s “come hither” signal.
Mr. Outback did a few rudimentary stretches and then headed into the woods.
I gave him three or four minutes before raising the windows, climbing out and locking the truck. I grabbed my own trekking poles out of the bed and headed down the trail.
I walked a good thirty or forty yards into the darkness of the woods with no sign of him. Just as I was thinking I had read his signal incorrectly, he came into view. He was standing at the edge of the trail as if he were taking a leak. I chuckled to myself. He was whistling “Oh When the Saints Go Marching In.”
Because I was unsure of his intentions, it seemed safest to just walk by, then linger down the trail. I gave him a “Nice day.”
He responded with a “Yep.”
I walked another fifty paces down the trail and around two bends. I figured it was now or never. I settled in and sat down on a cedar stump.
I didn't have to wait long. Don, as I would later learn, came into view. He had a shit-eating grin on his face and a beautiful eight inches of uncut manliness dangling out of his open fly.
Don seemed to know the ropes. Without any hesitation and without any further howdy-do’s, he just sidled up to me, tossed his stick to the ground and put his hands on his hips. His cock conveniently was at my face level.
Don wasn't a physically aggressive kind of oral top, but he was verbal. That was fine with me. I liked being told what to do and thrived on compliments.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked.
I was mesmerized by a two-inch string of glistening precum dripping from his cock. Without grasping his meat with my hands, I leaned forward and lapped the prize with the very tip of my tongue. I curled my tongue upward and teasingly licked his pee slit. I both felt and saw him shudder.
Don seemed more than ready to be serviced and blow a load. As he directed his hands from his hips to the back of my head, I noticed a black rubber wedding band. He was either very hip or he had a case of Neil Armstrong paranoia. One way or the other, he clearly wasn't getting enough (or any) relief at home.
I fisted the base of his organ with my left hand and retracted his foreskin with my right index and thumb. I allowed him to direct my head forward as he simultaneously widened his stance and inched his pelvis forward.
His velvety glans slipped between my lips.
As most cock sucking connoisseurs know, there is nothing quite like that intoxicating sensation of a cock head sliding over one’s tongue. I inhaled deeply his musky man-scent through my nostrils and began lightly licking his frenulum.
Don seemed appreciative. “Yeah, Baby. That’s it. Suck my cock. Oh, yeah.”
I slid my left hand down to his scrotum and circled his nutsack with my thumb, index and long fingers. His nads were lemon-sized and dangled down like brass bully balls hanging below the hitch of an F-350. I would have loved to fill my mouth with his jizz organs, but there was zero chance I could gobble even one testicle, let alone both.
I fisted his meat and began jacking him, using a combined stroking and rotating, wring-out-the-dish-rag technique. This seemed to be to his liking. With each bob of my head, he humped his pelvis forward an inch. The combination produced a near-perfect excursion of perhaps two inches of prick over my tongue: a good slab of pork for the tasting, but no gagging.
Don began heaping on the praise, growling encouragement through clenched teeth. “Honey, that’s it. Suck your daddy. Oh, yeah. You want it, Baby. Take my load.”
I thought “Huh? ‘Honey’ and ‘Daddy’. Weird,” but got back to work.
I was really enjoying servicing Don’s primo sex organ, but I was getting a cramp near my right shoulder blade. I was hoping he was getting close to blowing a prodigious load into my hungry mouth, so I could stand up and stretch.
Just as I was thinking I’d have to prematurely terminate our lust-making, Don solved my back problem.
“Down on your knees, cocksucker. Worship my big cock. You love it, don’t you.”
“Uh-oh,” I was thinking. Had I misjudged this guy? Was he going to get aggressive and try to give me a good face-fucking?
But, truth be told, I did love his cock (at least for that brief moment in time). I felt like putty in his hands and longed for him to heap praise upon my subservient self.
I released Don’s meat and balls. He pulled his slobbery brat from my mouth and stepped back a yard. I put my hands behind my neck and quickly stretched my aching back. I locked eyes with Don and slid forward, knees resting on the cool damp forest floor.
He had a leer on his face and was breathing through clenched teeth.
I shifted my attention down to Don’s offering. He was tightly fisting the base of his rod, constricting his appendage like a tourniquet. The effect was to produce a violaceous, gnarly and downright scary-looking weapon.
Don seemed impatient. “Get to work. Take my load.”
Who was I to delay this man his sexual gratification?
As I awkwardly scooted, Don urged my head toward with his left hand behind my neck. His dripping cockhead was now just inches from my lips.
Don resumed his dominant, high school coach position: legs spread, hands on his hips and chest puffed out. He didn't have to say a word. His nonverbal communication screamed, “Suck my cock, you little perv.”
I scooted even closer. I lifted his cock into a vertical position with my left hand and pulled his balls up with the right. I pressed my face into his taint and inhaled deeply the aroma of his sweaty crotch and his excreted pheromones. My momentary trance was broken when Don ordered, “I said, suck my cock.”
I really wanted to lick his taint and balls, then run my tongue up and down his shaft; but I was ready to give Don what he needed,
I leaned back a few inches, pulled his meat to the horizontal and added my right hand in a Louisville Slugger manner. This left only his beet-red glans and a half inch of bat exposed. I opened my mouth and went to work.
I sucked and simultaneously pistoned my fists up and down his rod, now furiously trying to milk his sex organ. I thought, “Just how much longer can this guy go?”
I got the answer.
“That’s it, Baby. That’s it, Baby. Ugh. I’m gonna cummmmm.”
Don bucked his pelvis once, twice, then a third time. With each violent hump, he shot a rope of sweet and salty jizz to the back of my throat. I started to gag and needed a breath badly, so I pulled off his prick and swallowed down his gift.
I looked up at Don. He was looking upward, his cheeks initially puffed out. He released the air loudly and shifted his gaze downward.
“I needed that. Thanks.”
I guess I could have answered, “You’re welcome” or something similarly lame; but I just wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, stood up and headed back to the truck.
