Everyone is 18+ and everything is consensual
Bangkok doesn’t cool off after midnight. Air thick with leftover heat, engines hissing, a sticky pulse in the gutters. I’m straddling my little bike outside the bar, helmet crooked, sweat sliding down my spine, and Jay is grinning at me like the world’s biggest, dumbest golden retriever.
He’s straight, or at least that’s what he tells himself, half-Thai, half–something else, all muscle and long limbs, taller than me by a head. Tonight his jersey shorts hang low on his hips, tank top clinging dark with sweat, hair curling damp around his temples. He’s tipsy, eyes half closed, that loose-limbed confidence of someone who never worries about saying the wrong thing.
He leans in, throws an arm over my shoulder—heavy, full of heat. “Take me home? Missed the last train, bro.”
He never asks. He just assumes I’ll take care of him. It’s stupid how much I like it.
I shift, legs spread wide on the seat, my nylon shorts riding up my ass, sticky with sweat. I hear him laugh low in his chest, a little mean, but he’s already climbing on, thighs pressed around mine, knees splayed wide because there’s barely room for both of us. The seat’s made for Thai-sized bodies, and Jay’s anything but small. I can feel the muscle in his legs flexing, his crotch grinding right up behind me as he settles.
“Shit, you’re tiny,” he mutters, mouth right up against my ear. His hands lock around my waist, not gentle—he holds on like he’s worried about falling, but I know he just likes to grip.
The engine coughs, vibrates under me. Jay’s chest is pressed flat against my back, skin sticking to my bare shoulders where my shirt’s gone damp. His breath brushes the back of my neck, sour with beer and something sweet, maybe Red Bull. Every exhale sends a ripple straight down my spine.
First gear, a lurch. He laughs, loud and open, then clutches my waist tighter, his thumbs tracing the band of my shorts. His arms box me in, big hands splayed over my belly, and there’s no space between us. The city swallows us up, headlights flickering, motorcycles weaving. Every time I lean, his hips follow, crotch pressed up, shifting higher with every bump.
I can feel it—thick shape pressed to my ass, barely contained by thin jersey. At first it’s soft, just heat and pressure, but every time I brake hard, every pothole, his weight lands right on me, and I feel him swelling up, cock thickening against the thin fabric of my shorts. My own cock is aching, smearing slick against the inside of the nylon, but there’s nothing I can do but clench and keep riding.
He starts breathing heavier. The tips of his fingers slip lower, almost sliding under my waistband, rough pads pressing into the sweat pooling at my hipbones. His thighs tighten, and now I can’t ignore the ridge of his cock, straining, finding the cleft of my ass through two paper-thin layers. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer, pressing up, every inch of him trying to climb inside my skin.
“Bro,” he grunts, voice ragged, muffled against my neck. “Shit, sorry. Not my fault.” He laughs, but it’s shaky.
I just lean back, press my ass firmer into his lap. The seat bucks, another pothole, and suddenly his hips jerk up, cock grinding hard between my cheeks, leaking hot through the fabric. My shorts are sticking, his are slick, and the only thing keeping me together is the rumble of the engine, the city swirling past, headlights catching us in flashes.
He starts to move without meaning to, a restless, slow shift, hips twitching up into me as the city blurs by. At first it’s just tension, thighs clamping tighter, his breath getting ragged in my ear, but then he tries to pull back a little, as if maybe that will stop the friction, keep his body in check. It doesn’t help. There’s nowhere to go. My ass is all over him, and every time I brake he has to hold me, fingers digging in, cock caught in the squeeze, nowhere to hide how thick and hot he’s getting.
His voice comes out rough, almost pleading. “Shit, bro, I… Can you—” He swallows it, face pressed behind my neck. I can feel how hard he’s shaking, like he wants to stop moving but his body won’t let him. His cock throbs again, thick and obvious, trapped between his shorts and mine, the only barrier a layer of sweat and cheap fabric. I catch him pressing his forehead into my shoulder, almost hiding.
He shifts again, hips bucking just a little, as if he’s trying to adjust, but it’s useless. I feel every inch. The head of his cock lines up with the curve of my ass, sliding slick, the heat of him leaking through, making my own shorts wet, making me want more. He holds his breath and tries to go still, but the traffic is relentless, bumps keep coming, every jolt grinding him harder into me, every vibration from the engine making him twitch.
He mutters something, not really words, more like a groan. His hands flex at my waist, then open, then squeeze again. He tries to lift himself away, but that only drags his cock up higher, head catching right at the top of my crack. He shudders, a soft, embarrassed noise. “Fuck, this is—bro, I’m—”
I feel him tense up behind me, whole body drawn tight, caught between the need to let go and the shame of being this close, this helpless, all his control stripped away by the way I’m pressed into him. My ass clenches and his hands fly up to hold me still, but his grip is desperate now, trying to hold on to anything but losing ground.
His cock pulses again, and I know he’s leaking now, soaking the front of his shorts, warm mess seeping through, slicking up the back of mine. His breath is shaky, coming in short bursts, and I feel him struggling not to grind, not to thrust, but the seat and the city and my body are doing the work for him.
He goes silent. His hands tremble at my hips, fingertips digging in, holding me tight so I can’t slip away. His forehead drops to my shoulder again and he lets out a broken, strangled sound, shame and hunger tangled up in it. His hips jerk up against me, rough now, rhythm lost, just raw need. He tries to muffle his moan in my shirt, but it shakes right through me.
He shifts again—small, helpless movement, cock head pushing up the sweat-slicked cleft of my ass, then dragging down again. The seat vibrates, my own cock jumps, and I feel him shudder from the effort of holding back. His whole body is strung tight, shoulders hunched, arms crushing my waist, as if the only thing keeping him from coming is sheer will.
But the city never lets up. Another pothole, bigger this time, and his hips buck so hard I almost lose balance. That’s all it takes. I feel the tension break, his cock jamming up between my cheeks, and he gasps—sharp and ragged, desperate and ashamed.
“Sky—shit—” His voice is barely there, shaking, almost lost under the noise.
Then it happens—his body seizes, arms locked around me, breath caught, and I feel the first pulse, thick and scalding, soaking through the front of his shorts, painting the back of mine. He clutches me so tight it almost hurts, hips jerking helplessly, cock throbbing, spurting, leaking so much I feel it running warm down the backs of my thighs, sticky, endless, messier than I thought possible. He groans, face hidden in my shoulder, shame and relief knotted together, holding on until the last twitch leaves him limp.
We pull up at my apartment. He doesn’t let go right away, just holds me, spent and shuddering, breath hot and fast against my shoulder. The back of my shorts are wet, clinging to me, cooling in the air, sticky with his mess.
He finally slides off, standing there, hands cupped over his crotch, legs shaking. The dark patch spreads down the front of his shorts, still leaking.
I look at him, and he can’t meet my eyes. “Shit, bro, I’m sorry. I—fuck.” His voice is tiny now.
“Come upstairs,” I say. “You can’t go back to yours like that. And I need to clean up, too.”
He follows, silent, still holding himself, eyes flicking down to the back of my shorts and the shine of his cum on my thighs. I buzz him in. My ass feels soaked, every step a reminder of what just happened.
Inside, the city noise fades, but the heat doesn’t. I leave my shorts on for a moment longer, letting the wet fabric cling, letting the memory burn in. Jay stands in the kitchen, hands at his sides, cock swelling again, a new dark stain forming, and neither of us says a word about it. I just watch him, body humming, still hungry.
TBC…
Bangkok doesn’t cool off after midnight. Air thick with leftover heat, engines hissing, a sticky pulse in the gutters. I’m straddling my little bike outside the bar, helmet crooked, sweat sliding down my spine, and Jay is grinning at me like the world’s biggest, dumbest golden retriever.
He’s straight, or at least that’s what he tells himself, half-Thai, half–something else, all muscle and long limbs, taller than me by a head. Tonight his jersey shorts hang low on his hips, tank top clinging dark with sweat, hair curling damp around his temples. He’s tipsy, eyes half closed, that loose-limbed confidence of someone who never worries about saying the wrong thing.
He leans in, throws an arm over my shoulder—heavy, full of heat. “Take me home? Missed the last train, bro.”
He never asks. He just assumes I’ll take care of him. It’s stupid how much I like it.
I shift, legs spread wide on the seat, my nylon shorts riding up my ass, sticky with sweat. I hear him laugh low in his chest, a little mean, but he’s already climbing on, thighs pressed around mine, knees splayed wide because there’s barely room for both of us. The seat’s made for Thai-sized bodies, and Jay’s anything but small. I can feel the muscle in his legs flexing, his crotch grinding right up behind me as he settles.
“Shit, you’re tiny,” he mutters, mouth right up against my ear. His hands lock around my waist, not gentle—he holds on like he’s worried about falling, but I know he just likes to grip.
The engine coughs, vibrates under me. Jay’s chest is pressed flat against my back, skin sticking to my bare shoulders where my shirt’s gone damp. His breath brushes the back of my neck, sour with beer and something sweet, maybe Red Bull. Every exhale sends a ripple straight down my spine.
First gear, a lurch. He laughs, loud and open, then clutches my waist tighter, his thumbs tracing the band of my shorts. His arms box me in, big hands splayed over my belly, and there’s no space between us. The city swallows us up, headlights flickering, motorcycles weaving. Every time I lean, his hips follow, crotch pressed up, shifting higher with every bump.
I can feel it—thick shape pressed to my ass, barely contained by thin jersey. At first it’s soft, just heat and pressure, but every time I brake hard, every pothole, his weight lands right on me, and I feel him swelling up, cock thickening against the thin fabric of my shorts. My own cock is aching, smearing slick against the inside of the nylon, but there’s nothing I can do but clench and keep riding.
He starts breathing heavier. The tips of his fingers slip lower, almost sliding under my waistband, rough pads pressing into the sweat pooling at my hipbones. His thighs tighten, and now I can’t ignore the ridge of his cock, straining, finding the cleft of my ass through two paper-thin layers. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer, pressing up, every inch of him trying to climb inside my skin.
“Bro,” he grunts, voice ragged, muffled against my neck. “Shit, sorry. Not my fault.” He laughs, but it’s shaky.
I just lean back, press my ass firmer into his lap. The seat bucks, another pothole, and suddenly his hips jerk up, cock grinding hard between my cheeks, leaking hot through the fabric. My shorts are sticking, his are slick, and the only thing keeping me together is the rumble of the engine, the city swirling past, headlights catching us in flashes.
He starts to move without meaning to, a restless, slow shift, hips twitching up into me as the city blurs by. At first it’s just tension, thighs clamping tighter, his breath getting ragged in my ear, but then he tries to pull back a little, as if maybe that will stop the friction, keep his body in check. It doesn’t help. There’s nowhere to go. My ass is all over him, and every time I brake he has to hold me, fingers digging in, cock caught in the squeeze, nowhere to hide how thick and hot he’s getting.
His voice comes out rough, almost pleading. “Shit, bro, I… Can you—” He swallows it, face pressed behind my neck. I can feel how hard he’s shaking, like he wants to stop moving but his body won’t let him. His cock throbs again, thick and obvious, trapped between his shorts and mine, the only barrier a layer of sweat and cheap fabric. I catch him pressing his forehead into my shoulder, almost hiding.
He shifts again, hips bucking just a little, as if he’s trying to adjust, but it’s useless. I feel every inch. The head of his cock lines up with the curve of my ass, sliding slick, the heat of him leaking through, making my own shorts wet, making me want more. He holds his breath and tries to go still, but the traffic is relentless, bumps keep coming, every jolt grinding him harder into me, every vibration from the engine making him twitch.
He mutters something, not really words, more like a groan. His hands flex at my waist, then open, then squeeze again. He tries to lift himself away, but that only drags his cock up higher, head catching right at the top of my crack. He shudders, a soft, embarrassed noise. “Fuck, this is—bro, I’m—”
I feel him tense up behind me, whole body drawn tight, caught between the need to let go and the shame of being this close, this helpless, all his control stripped away by the way I’m pressed into him. My ass clenches and his hands fly up to hold me still, but his grip is desperate now, trying to hold on to anything but losing ground.
His cock pulses again, and I know he’s leaking now, soaking the front of his shorts, warm mess seeping through, slicking up the back of mine. His breath is shaky, coming in short bursts, and I feel him struggling not to grind, not to thrust, but the seat and the city and my body are doing the work for him.
He goes silent. His hands tremble at my hips, fingertips digging in, holding me tight so I can’t slip away. His forehead drops to my shoulder again and he lets out a broken, strangled sound, shame and hunger tangled up in it. His hips jerk up against me, rough now, rhythm lost, just raw need. He tries to muffle his moan in my shirt, but it shakes right through me.
He shifts again—small, helpless movement, cock head pushing up the sweat-slicked cleft of my ass, then dragging down again. The seat vibrates, my own cock jumps, and I feel him shudder from the effort of holding back. His whole body is strung tight, shoulders hunched, arms crushing my waist, as if the only thing keeping him from coming is sheer will.
But the city never lets up. Another pothole, bigger this time, and his hips buck so hard I almost lose balance. That’s all it takes. I feel the tension break, his cock jamming up between my cheeks, and he gasps—sharp and ragged, desperate and ashamed.
“Sky—shit—” His voice is barely there, shaking, almost lost under the noise.
Then it happens—his body seizes, arms locked around me, breath caught, and I feel the first pulse, thick and scalding, soaking through the front of his shorts, painting the back of mine. He clutches me so tight it almost hurts, hips jerking helplessly, cock throbbing, spurting, leaking so much I feel it running warm down the backs of my thighs, sticky, endless, messier than I thought possible. He groans, face hidden in my shoulder, shame and relief knotted together, holding on until the last twitch leaves him limp.
We pull up at my apartment. He doesn’t let go right away, just holds me, spent and shuddering, breath hot and fast against my shoulder. The back of my shorts are wet, clinging to me, cooling in the air, sticky with his mess.
He finally slides off, standing there, hands cupped over his crotch, legs shaking. The dark patch spreads down the front of his shorts, still leaking.
I look at him, and he can’t meet my eyes. “Shit, bro, I’m sorry. I—fuck.” His voice is tiny now.
“Come upstairs,” I say. “You can’t go back to yours like that. And I need to clean up, too.”
He follows, silent, still holding himself, eyes flicking down to the back of my shorts and the shine of his cum on my thighs. I buzz him in. My ass feels soaked, every step a reminder of what just happened.
Inside, the city noise fades, but the heat doesn’t. I leave my shorts on for a moment longer, letting the wet fabric cling, letting the memory burn in. Jay stands in the kitchen, hands at his sides, cock swelling again, a new dark stain forming, and neither of us says a word about it. I just watch him, body humming, still hungry.
TBC…
