Welcome to Bridgeport (m/m, size, relationship)

Discussion in 'Fictitious Stories' started by dannymawg, Feb 21, 2008.

  1. dannymawg

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    Welcome to Bridgeport

    Part 1 - August 1st



    I had been shopping around for a home for about a year - my first foray into the real estate market. I wasn't interested in the "buy and flip" properties, although I was looking for a typical fixer upper with some unique features. I wanted a home.

    I found something that had at first caught my eye, and then my heart - a smallish two story brick building, built at the turn of the last century, situated in the middle of a residential block in Chicago's Bridgeport neighborhood. It had started life as a mom & pop Italian bakery, fronting the double wide lot of the first generation's family property. It had been sold off and duplexed in the 60s, with each new owner making their requisite "upgrades", including a un-city-approved rooftop hot tub.

    I had barely enough saved to make the down payment, and would need to do some serious scrimping to make the mortgage every month on top of steady repairs, but my graphic design career was stable and I had many freelance opportunities to help with cash flow. This place was the live/work fortress I was craving.

    Moving day was a scorcher, temperatures in the high 90s, but went easy enough - one 16 foot U-Haul cube van was enough for my meager Ikea/thrift store collection, and with help from friends Paul and Al, we easily dispensed with the chores by mid-afternoon. We were soon on my roof, cracking beers, testing the plumbing of the hot tub, hoping for at least a cooling dip - but disappointingly, the tap was yielding rusty water at a very slow rate. I was about to remark in passing that the building inspector I had hired didn't catch this problem, when I heard it before I saw it - or at least the roof of it...

    The bass rumble of a V8 engine, at a lumpy and loud but factory idle, moving slowly from one end of the alley to the other. In between the rooftops of the garages on the alley, I spotted the source, a gold painted car roof creeping - a Pontiac, maybe? Slowed even more to squeeze by the U-Haul van parked outside my garage. Garage door still open and unmanned - something one doesn't usually do for long periods in certain neighborhoods - but while I was confident that this neighborhood was safer than others, I should go down to close it. The gold reappeared, disappeared, reappeared as it moved further down the alley.



    "Dan!"

    I turned to Al, blinking, still listening to whatever that was out in the alley now backing into a garage. So whatever it is, it's local.

    "Dude, look at this. Someone has stuffed steel wool in the faucet." With thumb and forefinger, Al was picking at the spout of the faucet, pulling out a brown, rusted mass. "Why would someone do this?"

    "Dunno..." I said, preoccupied with making a mental note to learn about whatever car that was, sharing an alley. Cars like that in the city are almost always a toy for somebody, and cash usually talks. Maybe I wouldn't have to look far for a new toy for myself.

    Paul asks, "How much you pay that inspector?"

    "I'm sure that faucet was the least of his worries," I said. "He told me that the foundation has cedar pilings - something pretty common for buildings of this vintage around here. At least they were in good shape. And that this hot tub being up here without the roof being reinforced is nothing but trouble, too. So you guys better get used to the idea of this thing not being here too much longer."

    "Bummer," Al says. "I was looking forward to gettin it on with you and Paul in here. With some chicks," as he grabs his package through his green khaki cargo shorts. Paul rolls his eyes.

    A wary but optimistic "Dunno, paisano" from me after pounding the rest of my beer. "Hey, if you guys want - go downstairs, cool off, grab another beer, have a look around - I'm gonna go pull the van in the garage."



    I make my way down the stairs leading to the roof, down the gangway between mine and the neighbor's garages, wrestle with the sagging wrought iron gate, and pat down the non-existent pockets of my silver Adidas basketball shorts for the van keys. Damn, inside, on the stainless steel island counter of the kitchen. Nab the keys, grab another beer, make my way back through the garage, open the door of the van to a blast of superheated, rental van-flavored air. In my wifebeater and shorts, I start to sweat even more as I start the van and roll down the windows.

    I pull the van forward, to start the process of backing in - there it is. The unmistakable prow of a 1971 Pontiac Grand Prix, backed in but about the first two feet or so hanging out of a run-of-the-mill two-car garage on the opposite side of the alley, four doors down. I decide to roll down the alley to get a better look. Maybe circle around the block, as I could use a better approach anyway to back the van in, as the alleys are not that wide in this neighborhood.

    I roll up to the garage and get a good look. Baja Gold. No vinyl roof, but I already knew that from seeing the gold roof idling down the alley. Rally II wheels with fat blackwall tires. Appears to be a survivor - hood is up (the longest hood in the industry at its time), and the engine bay looks almost stock and spotless. The car is centered in the two car bay, the drivers' door is open, the engine off, hot metal ticking from cooling, the access door to the garage open, revealing a well tended backyard. This guy is set up pretty well for such a small space. Something tells me the Grand Prix is not for sale. Along the back and side walls are tool chests, workbenches, other standard garage items - a lawnmower, snowblower, lawn and gardening stuff, a huge pane of glass for some kind of storm window... I realize that with no one in the garage, I might be seen as scoping the place out to steal something, so I ease the van out of the alley and around the block.

    As I pull into the opposite end of the alley to begin the approach to my garage, I see a hulking figure in a dark t-shirt and shorts step out of the garage, close the GP's hood, and step back inside. I maneuver the van backwards into my open garage, and as I do so, I hear the GP fire up and do the same. Shutting the van down, I get out and poke my head out of the garage - the GP's garage door is still open, and at that instant, the hulking figure's baseball-capped head and shoulder also pokes out around his corner. And flashes a smile I can see from here.

    On impulse, I retreat back into the garage. Did he see me stopped in front of his garage? Was that some kind of warning?

    Or invite?...



    Staring at my shoes, spinning the van keys around on an index finger, sweating like a pig, feeling my hefty dick swelling in my jock, seeing the bulge starting to show in my loose shorts... big dude... nice car... maybe this would be a good time to introduce myself to the neighborhood. Smiling faintly with some resolve, I turn around to head back inside, to grab another couple of introductory cold beers, and I walk directly into Al, who had been standing behind me the whole time.

    "Dude, it takes you 15 minutes to park a van?" Al's eyes drop to my crotch, as I've been watching them do lately. "And parking a van makes you horny?" he says, with a smirk.

    I laugh, "Only for you, my friend." Dropping into a mock Goodfellas accent, "S'amatta? You tink you missin suntin? You wanna peeza dis?" I mock as I heft my jock's waistband out of my shorts, keys in one hand jingling with the motion.

    Al's eyes widen as he seems to be searching for words. I ask, "Aren't you and Paul going to the Elektrik Wizardz show tonight? I don't want to kick you out so quick after all the help, but it's after six..."

    "I thought you were gonna go, too..." He sounds hurt. I start moving back inside, as Al follows.

    "Maybe you guys should think about going without me. Y'know, moving day and all... tired, sweaty... maybe I should stay in tonight, settle in. Meet my neighbors. That's where I was, by the way - was checking out this sweet-" I break off. Don't want to give it away.

    "Sweet what? Ass?" Al says, scowling at me as I reach into the fridge for more beer. Obviously insinuating about my bulge. Al is a shorter, tightly packed, gorilla-hairy Italian endomorph, and if we hadn't been buddies for so long, I'd do his ample ass in a New York minute.

    By this time, lanky Paul has descended the spiral stairs and approaches, asking in a dog-style pant, "Sweet ass? Where?" I chuck him a beer which he picks out of mid-air.

    "All over the neighborhood, my friends. Bridgeport, home to multinational asses - Italian (giving Al an eye), Polish (a chin to Paul), black, white, plaid, you name it. And now my Irish ass. To Bridgeport - and my new home. Thanks for the help today, guys." We shake our beers, hold them airborne in a triad toast, and crack the tops to a spray of beer everywhere - something we've been doing as our own personal toast for years. For the next ten minutes or so we exchange pleasantries, where-will-you-be-laters.

    I have to admit feeling bad about shooing them out the door like that, they're big boys, and it's not like I haven't been shooed out by either one or both of them before. Paul is definitely the pussymonger out of the three of us, and will make no bones about not needing a wingman. But Al has been clingy, showing some homo tendencies lately, at both Paul and me, and at others. I want to see what's up with that, but there's a friendship at stake.



    Deep breath.



    I am now free, and it's getting on seven o'clock. Time to see who the proud owner of the GP is. Thinking about Al can come later.
     
    #1 dannymawg, Feb 21, 2008
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  2. dannymawg

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    I decide that I've cooled off enough and am not totally smelly, so I can pass on a shower. Two more fresh cold beers, key check, and I'm wrestling and locking the wrought iron gate again. I can see the GP's garage is still open. Good.

    I approach the GP's garage as two smiling, laughing Mexican kids on a BMX bike swerve with imbalance in my path. I side-step them with a "whoa!", park the beers on top of a garbage bin, look into the garage, and see the hulking figure from earlier, standing at a workbench, backlit to almost a silhouette from the light over the bench. The GP's hood is up again, the air cleaner off, the carb removed. The figure looks up and back with a sideways glance at my "whoa", as I stand on the garage's apron.

    "Wow... sweet Grand Prix, man. '71?" I know I already know the answer, and I'm certain he knows, but it's the usual stranger car talk thing guys do.

    "You know it. Modelo jota." Meaning it's a Model J, one of the option levels for second-gen GPs.

    He turns sideways from the workbench, his attention now half devoted to the carb in one huge hand, and I kinda wish he hadn't turned so I could have kept looking, but I turn my attention back to the GP. Huge would have been a fitting descriptor for any one of his body parts - from the white and black beat-up Reeboks on his feet in white ankle socks, up thick, hairy legs to the beefy ass stretching tight a pair of dark brown, old style nylon gym shorts - as he turns, I see the white "MC" logo on one thick leg, meaning these were probably original for a local Catholic high school alma mater. Broad, thick shoulders with a halfback roll, encased in a worn-thin light gray t-shirt, which again upon his turning reveals a Puerto Rican flag, looking small and stretched across an expanse of meaty pecs. A similar tattoo of the same flag surrounded by a stylized flaming sun peeking out from under the t-shirt sleeve on a big, well-developed but not overly ripped bicep. I had averted my gaze before I could get a crotch shot in the fading afternoon light...

    But in the few seconds I had to assess him, the guy was looking to be about 6'4" and somewhere between 250-275 pounds. Somewhat of a gut, but worn well overall on one powerfully and naturally built beef fuckin cake. In his mid 30s. Dark caramel skin tone. Lots of unruly, wavy black hair sticking out every which way from under a dirty black baseball cap. Bright, almond eyes, slightly wide set. Boyish face with a smallish, turned-up nose, unshaved and scruffy, and that smile - totally electric in its whiteness, almost as broad as his shoulders, bookended with vertical dimples. Not a pretty boy. Killer looks. No wonder I had seen that smile all the way from four doors down.

    "Man, this is nice. All original?" I'm noting original, intact black cloth interior, well optioned for a Model J, with buckets and console, gauges, power windows, factory tinted glass, and tilt wheel.

    "Sí... was my granpai's car in Puerto Rico. Bought new. Ship here with my family. 1980." The smile wanes. "He died, four year ago. I keep it... for his memory."

    I had stepped inside a few feet and stooped to check the car better. By this time he had moved to turn on the overhead fluorescents, and then stepped closer, shifting the carb from right hand to left, wiping his right on his shirt, ostensibly to shake - but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the hand drop to give a quick pinch n roll to his crotch.

    Ignoring this, I straightened up to look to his face to convey my condolences, as his voice had shown his loss. "Man, I'm sorry to hear that."

    "S'OK. He in a better place now. With mi granmai up there, too," as he points skyward.

    I stick out my hand to shake. "Name's Dan. I just moved in down there today," pointing a thumb back over my shoulder with the other hand.

    His huge dirty paw grabs my hand firmly and pumps. "Marcos. Ya I seen you. You buy the old panadería." He grins evilly. "Crazy place, mon. Hope you gots muy dinero, Danny."

    At this point I see we stand eye to eye, but Marcos has got to have a good 80 pounds on me. And then I see something about those eyes - deep dark brown, but with hints of hazel - like dull glitter. No hints of contact lenses, though. I turn back to the GP to avoid too much eye contact. The immediate default to the friendly "Danny" doesn't help. I like him already.

    "Ah, well, you know... I'm broke, now that I bought it." Wish I had enough left over to buy this car, but knowing a bit of its history already, I know enough not to say that. Instead, "Wish I had enough left over to buy a car like this. I ain't rich, but I needed a place with some space. It's got that three car garage, so maybe, someday..."

    "So maybe you rent one garage to me? - I park El Jota there, leave space open here for mi troca? Or park troca by you?" A slight bend at the knees, and another crotch hike. Don't look. Not yet. New neighbor. New really fuckin hot neighbor, too.

    I turn my attention back to the GP and chuckle softly. So that's what the peeking was about - he was scoping the new owner of the biggest garage on the block, in a neighborhood short on street parking and garage space. "Hey man, you never know. I might need the money. You got a truck?"

    "Sí." Marcos turns to return the carb to the workbench, where I see he has a box of metering jets open. "I work for electric union, but no room in here, I have to park on the street, have to bring everything inside, cada noche. Fooking drag, main." This little bit of mocking American profanity lights up his face even more, which in turn has me grinning, too.

    "Say Marcos, you want a beer? I have a couple right... here..." - or at least I thought I did. Walking back out of the garage to the garbage bin, they're now missing.

    "Ha ha... you should know better. Cabritos en sus bicicletas? They drink cerveza right now... heh!" Which was probably true, as they had been up and down the alley several times since I had walked up, but were now absent, as were the beers. "And shit - you new to the hood, I offer you one. Cerveza friá," motioning to the small apartment-size refrigerator in the corner.

    "Cool man, thanks." While pulling two High Lifes, I notice a foot or so gap between the fridge and the wall - a closer look reveals what looks to be a makeshift urinal stall - a crotch-high length of PVC pipe with a plastic gallon milk jug cut away to catch the flow stuck in the top, and the bottom stuck in something I recognize as a five gallon industrial carboy, sitting on the floor, with about a gallon of piss already in it.

    "So, uh, Marcos - you spend a lot of time out here?", motioning with my chin to indicate I had spied the urinal.

    "Oh man... my ol lady complain about me pissing in alley, and going in and out of the house, dirty feet and hands and shit. Also complain about neighbor lady, see me shakin mi bicho in alley, she think 'bellaco'! Ai... nice hood anyway, so I stop. Good idea, no?" as he looks towards it and mutters "Tengo que miar, antes de echarme otra cerveza..."

    Marcos puts down a screwdriver, and with a hand on my shoulder and a quieter "excuseme", he scootches his bulk between me and the back bumper of the GP to step to the urinal. I note on his passing that he gives me the crotch, and feel his package brush slightly against my ass. I remember in the movie "Fight Club", where the Tyler Durden character makes the "do I give you the crotch? or do I give you the ass?" speech on the plane. I just got the crotch, and I haven't even given it a good look yet... I also note that his hand seemed even more thick and heavy on my shoulder, with a slight squeeze, and the contact on both my shoulder and ass leaves both places tingling. I can't believe this is so... quick. He's not interested...? Already he's game?



    He can't be...
     
    #2 dannymawg, Feb 21, 2008
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  3. dannymawg

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    I sit on a stool facing the car, but my eyes are drawn towards him. Another bend at the knees, and I can tell that he didn't pull down the waistband - the shorts conform to his ass tighter and bunch in his crack as he simply pulled up a shorts leg. Not hard to do in those - they're almost skimpy on him. But that means he's gotta be hung, if he's just going out the shorts leg... and he's certainly not piss shy, as I hear a heavy stream immediately hit the plastic and gurgle. I can't believe this... make conversation.

    "Old lady, you said? Married?"

    "Divorciado. Cuatro anos. Crazy bitch. Make babies, then I dunno. Something happen in her head." A pause in speech, but the piss still flows. "Not something I did. She took off, went back to Puerto Rico, took bambinos, money, everything." Another pause. "I not think it was me - I loved her, with all my heart. Mi bambinos - Maribel and Juan, the apples of my eye. Never wants to talk. I think she did not like the winter here, and knew I not want to move, mi trabajo." I hear the same emotion come through as he had shown about his grandfather and the car. Enamoring. This is too much.

    "Sorry to hear about that too, Marcos. So you're alone now?" I cringe at myself for saying that. Stating the obvious. Fishing this early.

    The flow trails off, then a few heavy prostate pumps to empty. A heavy sigh. "Sí. Solamente." I think I can almost hear the air being displaced as he shakes his dick. His back still to me, the material of his shorts relaxes, he adjusts again with both hands, but this time he walks all the way around the GP to return to his spot at the workbench. I have the Millers opened, and we toast and drink up. Marcos takes a pull that drains half his bottle, sets it down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, raises eyebrows, adjusts hat, sighs again and belches, gets back to the task at hand. "Has not been bad now. I married early, had babies, always working. Never any time to have fun. Grandfather dies around same time as divorce, says to me, 'you get El J, my boy. Have some fun with her'. So I do. When money left over from child support," as he shrugs and rolls his eyes.

    "Wish I could say I feel ya, but I've never married." He's a feeler. Very open, I know that much now, within all of what? Fifteen minutes? Trying to tell me something this early after having just met me? Maybe it's the neighbor thing. Maybe with his divorce, he's opened his horizons. Not hard to do in this town. During this, the tiny clink of a jet falling onto the counter.

    "Ai... Hijoeputa!" The cadence, the art of his cursing is... arresting. All I can do is to smile.

    Looking up, thumping his chest a few times with a fist, he says "It hurts me here to think my fault, but I have to stop. Move on." He looks at me. "You not missing anything. A free man. You have a woman?"

    "Not at the moment, no."

    Marcos' eyes both squint and brighten almost imperceptibly, focused on the carb. I do my best to control myself and look down at my beer, then at the carb on the workbench. I change the subject with "So what you doin here? Tweakin jets?"

    "Sí. El J pull like a moterfucker off the line, but problem, eh... bomba del acelerador. Accelerator pump. Double pumper too much. Got this E-dell-broke off a guy for hundred dollars, gave it a try with new... eh, many fold. Mira - if you look - headers, too."

    I step over, lean over the fender and under the long hood, and sure enough - powder coated. I see Ram Air IV heads, too. I turn my head to look at him to ask something - and I knew it. He was looking over his shoulder, checking my ass out. He thought I'd have my head buried for a minute, but when I turned my head and said "455?", the directness of my voice pulled his eyes away from my ass to my face. I turned back to the engine bay. He was just checking out my ass...

    "Sí. Treinta over, now 462. I make change so it look stock from outside, much as possible."

    "Nice..." Now I was getting a good rise on. Good thing I had worn a jock for moving day. Beefy, Puerto Rican, handsome as all hell, into cars, seemingly available, close to home... non-verbal hints already... too fucking good to be true. "Ram Air heads... cam, too?"

    "Sí." Just as I had thought earlier I could hear Marcos swinging a big dick to shake the last drops of piss, I now thought I could hear a big calloused hand slowly rubbing nylon. I resist the temptation to look back again.

    "Wow... I can see just how well you've made this into a sleeper." I bet you're one in bed, too. But this was moving way too fast, even for a neighborly first meeting. I straightened up, and Marcos was already turned back and seated at the workbench. He's hiding his hard-on, I deduce. Probably what he's been trying to do this whole time, with the walking around the car after pissing bit. Time to back off a little.

    Pulling another stool into a safe, new-neighbor-meeting position, I was about to ask if he raced it at all, what El J's trap times were - though his was built up a bit, GPs are still heavy cars, but without looking up, Marcos says with a low, even voice: "I seen you, the day you came looking at panadería... I was off work that day."

    I kept quiet. He continued, "I been watching, seeing who was looking, so maybe I could get garage space for mi troca."

    Uncomfortable silence. So I say "And...?", pulling on my beer.

    Still looking down, engrossed in changing jets. But smiling faintly. "And I see you move in today. Happy that someone cool move in. I see your place from mine - big window in back, arriba." I hadn't gotten a good look at his place, other than what little I could see through the access door. I stand up, lean into the doorway for a look - veggie garden up one side, big arbor vitaes up the other, impossibly lush grass for a city lot in between, a small staircase and deck, and smack dab in the back of his tall A-frame, upstairs - a three panel picture window, the storm panel of which must be that one here in the garage. I turn to look, and could see that it reflected a good portion of the alley. I could see my three garage doors in it from here.

    Some mental calculation told me he also had a straight shot from that window upstairs, over the neighboring garages, to view my roof, possibly the doors to the garage in the alley, and probably a good view into the big windows of the master suite and office on my second floor. Which didn't have any blinds or curtains or anything yet. "Looks like a nice place you got here."

    Marcos looks up at me, big heavy shoulders hunched still. His diction suddenly crisp and slow, he says in a low voice with a wrinkled brow and half-scowl, "I hope you not think I spy on you." A little boy's face asking forgiveness instead of permission.

    "Naw, man... it's good, in a way, I guess... neighborhood watch, y'know? After all, you were here first, and I know neighbors don't approach each other that quickly... 'cept when they have cool cars."

    Marcos' face brightened again - so fucking precious, it is. His diction and tone returns to what it was. "Well, the peoples living there were pendejos. Never once say 'hola' to anyone, live there cinco anos. Let the place go to shit. I think, drogas maybe, but what kind?" he shrugs. "You know?"

    "There are some weird things - paint colors, bad rehab, plumbing, electrical. Who knows. Whatever drugs were involved, they must not have been very good."

    Marcos chuckles and says "Sí. So glad to have you here then. What you do? For work?"

    "Graphic design for retail advertising. It's a living. But I have some side business, freelancing. Package design, magazine layout, photography, whatever comes my way for cash."

    "I see. An artist."

    "Of sorts. Shadetree mechanic, too."
     
  4. dannymawg

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    After thirty or forty minutes of conversation, finishing up the jet change and replacing the carb, Marcos then straightens up, stretches his massive arms above his head, rolls his shoulders, vents his ballcap, and slaps his hands on his thick thighs. "You want maybe another cerveza? Comida? Pollo y arroz? Hamburguesa?..."

    Neighborly visit, Dan. You're here for the duration. He's not going anywhere soon, either. "Y'know what, Marcos? Don't be offended? But I'm kinda wasted after moving all day. I need a shower and a nap, and I have some pizza left over from lunch. Got to settle in a bit too. Unpack."

    Looking slightly disappointed, Marcos says "I understand, Danny. You come by soon, we eat, mas cerveza. Travesia en El Jota. Pick up some ladies."

    "Heh... will do, Marcos. Beautiful car. Your grandpa would be proud." I stand and stick out my hand for another shake.

    "He is, he is. Bienvenidos a Bridgeport, Daniel." Emphasis on the Spanish pronunciation of "Daniel". Marcos stands, smiles broadly, takes my hand with a firm grip, and as we shake, he gently lays his other massive paw on top, bows his head, his eyes obscured by the bill of his cap. I bow my head too, and use the split second to glance at his crotch. He's probably doing the same.

    It's massive, just like the rest of him.
    The slight sheen of the dark brown nylon is highlighted by the harsh fluorescent light, which gives my acute VPL sensors a better register that he's wearing underwear of some kind - but despite that, he has huge long meat and is likely uncut, and is probably 10% hard at this point. A show-er, and he's hanging to his left, which makes sense as he was holding the screwdriver as a righty.

    We release and catch each others' eye, smiling. His almost blinding. I point and shoot a finger and say "Thanks man. I see you soon." I turn and feel like I'm floating, tunnel vision down the alley. I don't turn to look back until I struggle with my wrought iron gate, and as I do, Marcos is standing a step or two outside his garage, and waves a big hand as I look, and doesn't step back inside until I'm in the gate.



    It's all I can do to keep from racing and possibly falling up the spiral stairs on legs both weak from moving day and the excitement of the last hour. It's a million degrees upstairs - I hadn't bothered with turning the air conditioning on with all the doors and windows open, and what little breeze during the day has now died down. I'm sweating again. I smell my palm - gasoline. The rush of the odor, combined with the rush of blood everywhere, has me reeling. Hit the shower. Now.

    In the bathroom of the master suite I strip off wifebeater, old white and red Air Force Ones, ankle socks, silver Adidas shorts, and damp white Bike jock. My dick springs forth with gusto, after the confines of the pouch. I open the cold water tap in the shower stall, get in, and press both palms against the wall and hang my head as the erratic, lopsided stream from the calcified showerhead rains down on my close-cropped head, my neck, my back, my face as I raise my head again.

    My dick isn't going down, its full eight inches sticking up at an angle I haven't seen in years, veins engorged, the cut head purple, my shaved balls tight and wrinkled from the cold water. With two fingers and thumb encircling the base, I bob it up and down, relishing the hardness, sliding the grip up and back, feeling my girth, thick at the base... slightly less thick in the middle, then just as thick or thicker towards the head, as I remembered my dick had developed in my youth. And I start to recall... nothing has made me so hard in recent memory. After a few more minutes of cooling down, I close the tap, and realize I have no towels handy. They're still in a box, out in the master suite... with the open windows... with no curtains or blinds or anything.

    I kill the only light in the suite. My windows go royal blue with the dusk outside. With an eye on the windows, I pad across the room, slipping slightly on the wood floor, and my wonder in the shower is confirmed. I have a clear shot at the picture window in the back of Marcos' house. Almost don't need any binoculars or anything. His window is dark.

    Still dripping wet, I locate the box I need in the peachy orange half light glow of Chicago's mercury vapor light pollution. Pulling out a white towel - I've never been able to bring myself to buy any other linens other than white - I begin toweling off, now feeling what little breeze is left on my drying skin. I do the usual frantic skull toweling first, then face, neck, shoulders, arms, pits, back, stomach, butt cheeks, and bend over to do legs and feet.

    As I straighten up, I slow up and get gentle with the scratchy terrycloth on my sensitive dick and crotch, looking out across the alley towards Marcos' place. There's a light on in the room now, revealing from this angle a yellowish wall, a bushy floor plant, a wardrobe, and a bureau. Marcos appears in the window, hands on hips, clothed as earlier, minus the baseball cap. The window is wide and big - I can see that much of the room, and almost all of him, down to past his knees. The angle of the light source in his room, the yellowish wall, and his dark skin tone all conspire to make him not much more than the big silhouette I saw in his garage earlier.

    I'm guessing the towel action in the half light of my room was akin to waving a white flag on a moonlit battlefield. It appears he's standing there, looking in this direction. I hold the towel over my junk in impulsive modesty, then realize I have enough of a boner to do the human towel rack thing, draping the sodden towel over my rock hard dick. Hands on hips, I squint and step closer to the window. I can't tell if he can see me.

    Marcos then turns, steps from the window to the wardrobe, and removes his t-shirt in one fluid motion. The light source now highlights him enough to see the broad, smooth muscles in his shoulders and back working. I see a thin white line above the waistband of his shorts as he stoops to do something with the shirt in the bottom half of the wardrobe. My dick and towel bounces with voyeuristic anticipation of a show.

    Instead, Marcos returns to the window, raises a forearm to rest against the window framing on one end, and rests his forehead on the arm, his other hand roaming his chest and belly, in what looks like a pattern conforming to idly scratching chest and belly hair. A casual, pensive pose, facing this direction, a subdued silhouette again.

    I take a step or two back further into my room, undrape the towel and hold it in my left thumb and forefinger, using the tips of my free fingers to scratch and loosen my still-tight-from-the-cold-shower nutsack, spit into the palm of my right hand, and start lubing up my cock, wasting no time on kneading the head. I'm still not sure if he can see me. But as soon as I start cranking in earnest, bingo - his scratching hand wanders further down his belly with each scratching motion, to root its way under the waistband of his shorts.

    I stand and jack my dick in a moderate tempo, taking another few steps back to keep his window in view, and just to be safe. I still haven't scoped out for myself the sightlines of any other neighbor's windows, but all I see is pretty much rooftops from here anyway. For a minute or two, I see him still rooting in his crotch by the subtle motion of his elbow, and I continue jacking.

    Marcos then lifts his head and looks back into his room. The arm comes down, and he turns, steps away from the window, out of view. He's gone for maybe fifteen seconds, then returns to the window, one hand to ear as if holding a phone, other hand in his shorts still. A nod of his head, a scanning glance left to right out the window, and he steps out of view again. A minute or so later the light goes out. Then vertical blinds traverse the length of the window, and close to make his window go gray.



    I close my eyes, throw back my head, plant my feet, hiss and breathe through my mouth, start jacking doubletime and think about Marcos' massiveness, and the images start flashing - those hands, his body, my thick cock buried in that beefy ass, his big heart in that broad chest, that smile, his eyes with the curious color, those lips, that bulge, that enormous Puerto Rican cock all the way up in my tight Irish ass as I check his window one last time - c'mon man, slamming and drilling and humping with all his beautiful mighty dusky weight on me - I mutter involuntarily "c'mon man, c'mon"...

    And my cock spasms, throbs hard, one quick stroke to the base and hold it, index finger grazing the trigger spot - one, two, three major shots flash their arc across the room in the half light, four, five, six I haven't nutted this hard in ages seven, eight, dribble, nine? ten! half shot/dribble eleven? twelve! exhale "HUHuuuuuuuuhhhh....." dribble, two or three hit a box or something... dribble... "Shit..."

    I just came like a fuckin turkey baster - remembering an amusing line Al occasionally drops. Taking a step back to counterbalance, I toss the towel in the direction of my jizzing, take a few more steps back to kick heels against the mattress and box spring on the floor, and collapse, Nestea-plunge style, across the bare mattress. My dick flops up on my groin. My panting is hard but slowing. I feel the burn from the sun today. I feel the blood returning to my head, making it pound. I feel my dick reducing in size with every lessening throb, leaving a snail trail in my trimmed pubes, starting from just under my navel.

    Settling in, indeed... with a deep sigh, into the mattress, in a horizontally crucified Jesus pose. My eyes gratefully close.


    Long day.

    He has a name. Marcos.

    Marcos is watching. Has been.

    Will be.

    I will.


    Drift off.
     
  5. jason_els

    jason_els <img border="0" src="/images/badges/gold_member.gi

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    Wow Danny! You've got yet another hidden talent. :wink: Very hot.
     
  6. Yawgrimas

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    I am very surprised and I enjoyed the story thoroughly :p, very good I hope this continues into the future.
     
  7. Rikter8

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    Very Nice.


    Here's a 71 J and 71 SJ Grand Prix for a visual
     

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  8. Matthew

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    Wow ...


    Well-written, suspenseful, real ... it's a diamond in the rough here.


    Wondering about the life experiences that inspired it ... and looking forward to WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.:biggrin1:
     
  9. Gonzo3

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    More more...........
     
  10. catman

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    Brilliant- and the car pictures are a really nice visual.
     
  11. dannymawg

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    Thank you all :biggrin1:

    Already covered that here... and yeah, I got a crush. Look! I'm writing about it! :tongue:

    Part two...
     
  12. dannymawg

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    Part 2: September 1st



    After all the moving, the settling in, the speaker/couch/screen angles tweaked, and a few more visits with Marcos, "high on life" suddenly lost its cornball connotation. The weeks were a blur with a new commute route to establish, and attention to various post-move details. Today is Marcos' first drop-in to my place, inspecting and lending advice on the electricals of my building. A month since first meeting.

    I believe him when he says "rip out every thing. We do section at a time, keep you up and running. Back of building, no problems, up to code except for hot tub pump. Front of building - do second floor first, then main level. Then, back of building, garage." Marcos peering into a junction box's guts with a flashlight. Plenty of time for me to run eyes over a broad back in a wifebeater, over a beefy butt in black basketball shorts. Hefty beefy football ass butt.

    "Uh... let's talk about this more when I can actually pay you." A quick mental image of calculating the rate of blowjob per x linear foot of wiring as he buttons up the box. "You watch baseball?" I ask in a louder voice, moving to the fridge for a couple. Courage.

    Marcos saunters into the kitchen with "Sí, when I can." Another boyish scowl, face turned to the side: "You down with Sox or Cubs?"

    "Fair weather fan. Sox, though. Cubs are for tourista," handing him his courage.

    A short hearty laugh, a crack of the bottles and a clink, and "Good man. I have family in beisbol, in Puerto Rico. Almost no work - one cousin, shortstop his living. Lives with girlfriend."

    I point the remote at the TV with the gesture that is supposed to make it work better. "Must be the life, man. Mo-ney for nothin, getcher chicks fer free." The TV statics on, the Sting/Mark Knopfler reference floats away. "Wonder... what's... on... now." Another remote gesture with each word, to find a Cubs game in the first inning.

    I turn back to say "Cubs?", and Marcos is getting ready to settle his bulk on the sofa - a big hand scoops and pulls his entire package up, pulling up in unison the white hem of each shorts leg to expose that much more thighs, looking back to plant butt on sofa, knees bending, he lands with an exhale on "S'OK. Fun to watch lose," draping a big arm over the back of the sofa across the back of my side of the couch. Behind the side where I will sit... so I do. "El Toro pitch," pointing with a finger of his beer hand.

    Marcos take a pull of beer, says "You know why El Toro?", points again at the screen.

    "Anger management problem?", and I look over.

    Marcos balances his bottle on the sofa arm, cups his package, three quick emphatic shakes, knowing grins, our eyes meeting.

    I look back at the screen, smiling. A look back at him, that electric smile, we both have a "don't go there man" look, we look back to the screen. I say "You know that's why they never show him from the waist up."

    He looks at the screen, nods. "Ai... Danny, you must know why," with a sly look back. "You hung too. I can tell." Drinks up. This sort of gentle teasing happened the last time we hung out, in his garage, nothing really much to do, as El J is in good shape.

    I stand - involuntarily? Go get snack foods, don't go there yet. Walking to the kitchen with "Hey, you know why girls dig Jesus, don't you?"

    "Eh?"

    Louder to compensate for distance, "You know why girls like Jesus?", reaching for chips and salsa.

    "Why?"

    "'Cause he's hung like this," arms out to sides, parallel to floor, nailed to the cross.

    Another lit up face, a shake of a finger at me, and Marcos is hunched forward, elbows on knees, beer in big hands with big fingers interlaced as I walk back, set snacks down, sit. I've got loose black jean shorts on, tighty whities, so my cock is in somewhat of control.



    Minutes pass. Marcos offers "you ever think it problem, being hung?"

    Courage. Timing. Respect. "In my youth, yeah sure. Tight jeans were normal in the eighties," finding the physical force to move my arm to grab my own package in my looser shorts. It feels mechanical, though when he does it, it looks second nature to him.

    Marcos' eyes drop a little to his beer, look back up to the screen. "Ai, hortera. No, I mean other thing."

    Duh. "Sex?"

    "Sí." Still looking at screen, hunched. A questioning voice in a low growl, "I think that maybe why Anna leave." Long pause. "Think I hurt her too much."

    "Physically?" He didn't he doesn't...

    A sideways glance with "Anna a little thing, you see pictures..." and back with "most time she in pain. No good." Pulls on beer. "Early on, at hospital once, just from fucking. She in great pain... I was too... force? Forcing? Nurse give me hassle, say she call police, rape, abuse, ai. Anna talk sense to her, in Spanish. Nurse give me look, say something in English about my size, then everybody relax."

    Courage. Timing. Respect.

    Aw, just do it. "Marcos... just how big are you?"

    With another sly grin sideways glance with a raised brow as he sets his beer down, he reclines back into the sofa, feet planted apart, thighs heavy from gravity, hands resting on the sofa cushion at either hip, and a large black nylon tent is created in his shorts from the strain of his dick. It looks like it would need two hands for me to cover or cup it. And I have fairly large hands, too.

    "Damn..."

    With a hesitation, Marcos then with one motion flips up t-shirt, hooks thumbs in waistband, stretches waistband up and over the tent pole and down the front of his thighs, to form an open square of where there once was shorts and underwear, but now a huge, uncut dick, darker than the rest of him, was beginning to rise to full attention in the space. Equally huge, dark, smooth nuts rested loosely in between thighs thick enough to still touch at the top in his sitting position. The darker foreskin exposing the first third of his dusky pink head not yet engorged, the entire cock lengthening, curving, swelling. Trimmed black pubes, leading up to sparse but trimmed, defined groin and belly hair.

    "Nine and half inches," Marcos intones at it proudly, kegeling his cock on each syllable of "...Puer-to Ri-cos finest". Maybe even ten. I've never seen a dick so big in all aspects. In person. And he hasn't even touched it yet. It dances. It flopped over on his leg on "finest".

    "Holy..." My hand automatically sets down my beer, feeling my face go incredulous, my other hand automatically finds my dick, feels through jeans for fingers under dick head and heel of hand let's-get-hard-now squeezing it. Marcos motions with his chin for me to show. I unbutton, unzip, raise butt to shuck 'em down, briefs and all, and my eight inches flops up on my belly. A two handed squeeze, a finger and thumb dick wag, and glances back and forth from eyes to dicks. I motion with my chin, point with my left hand, looking to touch. Marcos gives a nod.

    It feels like a radiator hose - hot, yielding less each second to pressure/girth tests, such thickness from the base with a slight taper to behind the head, fully retractable loose but tight foreskin, well defined nowhere-near-orgasm-yet head, heroic overall. It gets bigger and stiffer still as I continue with a slow exploration, up/down gauging of girth, as Marcos frees a thumb from stretching shorts duty to grasp my thick, swelling shaft in the same manner.

    "Damn, Danny... you almost thick as me. Almost..." with a grin.

    I shake my head no, with "Pfft - fuck man, you be El Toro... I can see how this would fuckin hurt." We look back at the screen.

    In silence other than the lowered TV, we slowly start to jack each other's cocks. I adjust my fingers to get his foreskin working, he does the tight head squeeze, then release with light downstroke to me. Taking glances from the screen, we continue jacking, temporarily removing hands to push shorts to floor, both our legs widening for ball fondling, and I hear a gate clang.

    I had given the once-over to the hinges of the wrought iron gates on either end of my gangway, which now swung freely and clanged shut with authority. And warning. I gave Al keys, and he's using them already. Hasn't called. Marcos and I look at each other, I hastily pull up my shorts, he does the same looking worried, I reach to check my phone for missed calls. Nothing.

    "Quién está aquí?"

    "Dunno. My friend Al, maybe." I know it's him. "Stopping by unannounced..." Adjusting crotch while standing, I walk to one of the two northerly windows - I bought blinds for upstairs, but not for these big windows down here yet - the living room one is empty, and in the kitchen window I then see Al, looking down the gangway with a shocked look on his face, disbelief, turning to leave. Coming in the front gate past the living room window. Saw the two of us sitting on the sofa from behind, close together and leaning in, Marcos had put an arm back up behind me on the sofa back after shucking shorts. Al might have seen me get up, adjusting my junk. I hear sneakered footsteps, the gate open, close, he didn't slam it, he's gone. "Shit..."

    "Someone you know?"

    A sigh, and "Yeah. Al. Better friend of mine."

    "You want maybe I go?"

    "Well... no. I..."

    Marcos stands, says "Can we nut quick? No nut for me in a minute..." Rubbing, pulling on softening dick through his shorts.

    My phone makes its text message tone. I reach for it on the coffee table, it says:

    snc whn u jo w guys

    Since I had a dick? How do you know we were... I realize I have phone in one hand, my other kneading my dick. I look to Marcos, take all of him in, say and indicate "Garage. No windows."
     
  13. dannymawg

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    We walk to the back, into the garage. Warm but not oppressive. I enter first, hit the lights, turn, plant my feet, drop trou, Marcos stops a foot in front of me, drops shorts, we reach for re-stiffening dicks. A minute of this, and my phone rings in my pocket. I stoop to retrieve it, and Marcos runs his free big hand gently down my back and over my ass cheek, other hand returning to his cock, resetting foreskin, beginning a deliberate JO.

    It's Al. I answer with a dry "Yo."

    "What's going on in there?"

    "Dude, it's not what-"

    "Who was that?"

    "Uh... does it matter? And dude, why do you sound-"

    Suddenly Marcos is on his knees in front of me. Cap turned backwards, ham fist wrapped around the base of my cock easily accounting for three-quarters its length, he takes the knob gently in his mouth, tongue tickling my piss slit, working into it. Slow deliberate action around my knob. My breath catches. I recover with the catch into "-so pissed?"

    A pause. "I thought we were going to hang out today."

    Invite him. "Look, it's just my neighbor-" Marcos has almost no gag reflex.
    In the last few seconds, he has slowly and deliberately swallowed me to the hilt, one huge hand palming my ass cheek like a basketball. He tilts his head, and tonsils manage to massage behind my head and the trigger spot underneath. I raise up on the balls of my feet to keep from coming, push on his forehead to pull out. He relents except for the head action again. "Just here to look at the electrics, he likes baseball, we were watching the game, havin a brew." He keeps my knob in his full lips. We make eye contact. His eyes are so deep...

    "Uh huh. A Cubs game." Sort of an unwritten rule in Chicago that not only are the Cubs for tourists, the proximity of Wrigley to Boystown makes it automatically suspect as a male bonding arena with local amenities. No fags allowed on the South Side. Sox = Darth Vader black, Cubs = Smurf blue. I remember the big print of Bobby Jenks in windup on my fridge, from his loose cannon Angels days. Ha. Hanging next to it is Johnny Cash giving a pissed off finger to an overzealous photographer in 1969.

    Something snaps in my head. I snap "Look... if you wanna know, yeah, we were jerking off. You wanna join us, come back. If not, fuck off. Y'know, you've been-" Marcos stands up, looks with concern at me, jack motion slowing. "-I dunno, a bitch lately. You mad about-" Gate clang again. I look at the phone - he disconnected. I look at Marcos. "You cool with this?", pointing to the door.

    A nod from Marcos, and I hear the side door between kitchen and living room unlock, open, close, a "where are you?" from Al.

    I holler, "In the garage." Marcos looks worried now, about to stoop to pull his shorts up. I wave him down. As he straightens, Al appears in the door to the garage, wide-eyed, in faded jeans, red rumpled polo untucked with white undershirt, hands in pockets, bulge showing.

    "Marcos, this my buddy Al. Al, Marcos. Neighbor - lives across the alley." Mutual nods of acknowledgment.

    He gets an eyeful of Marcos and I, who have stopped jacking and stand with arms at sides and heavy dicks at half-mast. I lean to put the phone down, and Al says "Since when do you jack off with guys?", his eyes darting between faces and dicks, widening with size queen admiration at Marcos' dong. It hangs with a proud curve, up and to his left. Heavy with blood. From gravity. It hangs because he's hung.

    Best to leave that one in silence, as Al's hands are playing pocket pool. His bulge grows, forms a neat mound, symmetrical to the fly. Beer can was always my guess, and I motion for him to come closer as Marcos and I resume jacking.

    Al steps over, plants feet to form a triad between us, his bulk making up for lack of height. He looks small compared to Marcos. Anyone looks small next to Marcos. Al opens jeans button, pulls down fly, looking at me, then at Marcos. "Aight - which one you cholos gonna be my bitch?", Al jokes.

    Simultaneously, Marcos and I reply with "Nuh-uh" and "You gonna be my bitch, bitch" respectively. Al has dropped jeans to knees, and is rubbing what looks like the predicted beer can through a thin layer of blue and white plaid boxers. Two hands press the fly around the head of his dick to line up fly with head, then hips swing forward and fingers push to groin to poke head to split the fly, fly straining, cut head very big and red, fly stretched out all around the shaft like a sheath. Six and a half, maybe seven inches, but Al has a cut beer can dick. I knew it.

    Put down cardboard. I waddle a few steps with shorts around ankles to one wall, to move a collapsed moving box from vertical against the wall to flat on the floor in front of us.

    Al pushes jeans to floor, shucks boxers there too, lifts up hand under polo and t-shirt to play with a nipple, revealing lots of dark brown hair against fairly light Sicilian skin. Marcos has begun a two handed fuck stroke, getting into it with knees and hips, fingers on his right hand locked to work foreskin. One hand on my hip, I do the usual change-ups. No more words are exchanged. Glances are, and I'm torn between Marcos and Al. Al is fixed on me mostly, some on Marcos and his enormous curved post. The three of us get down to one handed going-for-glory, grunting, breathing, silent.

    Marcos is fixed on me. We lock eyes. I see the dull hazel glitter. He looks so... I had seen that look when he was concentrating on something in his garage, on El J, and I wondered if I would ever see that look in this context. Took one month flat. Unbelievable. Such a big hulking grunting gentle giant and lookit that fuckin dick on him.

    Already Al hisses in, says "Oh shit - I'm gonna come", Marcos and I look away from each other to Al, Al stances again, gets up on the balls of his feet, and his nut spews forth, three healthy but low velocity wads, which make their random sound hitting the cardboard, hanging and swaying from his piss slit, dribbles tapping some more, a heavy exhale through blowing lips, head suddenly thrown back, eyes alternating between closure and wide-opening, looks at me, looks at Marcos, squeezing out and shaking off the drippage.

    Possibly the sexiest thing I've ever heard is the "Ai..." Marcos utters as he plants his legs, then lets fly and pumps his foreskin through eight steady shots that progress and taper from thick to watery, a consistent low exhale to a groaning "Aiii, cabron... aw, shit..." The first three shots clear the cardboard between me and Al, one shot landing on the taillight of my Japanese beater, and that and the "Aiii cabron" and the sound of his skeet sprinkling the cardboard set me off - a "mmph" and I blast my first wad up in the air, in the split second watching Marcos' eyes tracking it. The second one nearly tags Al's shirt as it files by from the motion of pointing my dick down to blow the rest directly on the cardboard. Several more squirts, I lose count, momentary lapse/loss of balance...

    Al says: "Damn - you guys come like turkey basters!"

    I laugh, almost embarrassed, and look to Marcos, milking the last of his load out of his foreskin, but with a WTF look. "Turkey?..."

    I chuckle with the humor of watching the gears turn, Marcos looking for the meaning of "baster". "Uh..." making a squeezing motion with my hand. "You know, turkey, Thanksgiving, right? Gravy? Leche? Skeet?", motioning a jacking geyser.

    A bright beaming smile, a knowing look, a big finger shook at both Al and I, "Sí, sí... I do!"

    "Whew!" Al says, shaking his head to clear. "Yeah man I needed that."

    Square. I check myself from rolling eyes, but add "Yeah, me too."

    Marcos, however, is still pulling, tugging at his refracting dong, looking down at it, but at the same time, making a half motion to pull up shorts, as if he doesn't know what to do, maybe wants to continue, so I opt to make things easy, and stoop to pull up mine, which has Al doing the same, Marcos releasing and following suit. Would we have another go if Al wasn't here?

    We button up, I kick cardboard under car, and without words Al and I file out of the garage back into the kitchen. Marcos follows, gripping and shaking my shoulder, grinning like we just went on some amusement park ride. What the fuck just happened?



    Aw, just roll with it.
     
  14. dannymawg

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    Al is washing his hands, Marcos is turned away from Al and has his shorts down, waistband behind big dark loose hanging balls and is blotting his retracted foreskin and dick head with a paper towel. I pull open a drawer and pull out some real towels, handing them out. Al keeps making conversation, but the one word replies from us hang heavy and spent like our dicks.

    Then, excepting for occasional idle baseball banter, we're all quiet, the TV still low, Al chain-smoking in a chair angled 90 degrees to the sofa, Marcos and I a safe distance from each other on the sofa, all eyes on the screen. I feel myself drifting off again, as the steady white noise of a baseball game filtered though TV speakers does its thing: Marcos is slumped like he was earlier, head propped against sofa back, butt perched on edge of sofa seat, fingers of hands intertwined and centered on his belly, hands rising and falling with his deepening breath, thighs heavy and swaying, knees occasionally splaying out with the onset of a nap.

    I look over and his baseball cap is pulled down slightly - I can barely see one eye, lids heavy, then springing open with a slight tilt of the head back to check me from under the bill. The smile flashes knowingly and the eye winks. My dick was in that mouth... that fleeting moment of receiving oral from him told me he's done it before, and is great at it. An image flashes of internet porn, girls' mouths photoshopped to the extreme, wide-eyed gagging on impossibly wide dark cock, sperm and drool dripping. Marcos standing, me on my knees, the same image flashes, only now it's my photoshopped mouth on Marcos' monster dick. There'd be no way I could take all that, mouth or ass. Not yet.

    At least Marcos is looking more comfortable than Al, who is holding weird body language - ankle across knee, arms crossed, beer tucked in, cigarette between tight lips, eyes squinting at the screen, taking quick glances this direction every so often. That's what I'm afraid of - jealousy.

    From the TV: "And there's a high, fast drive!... out to left center, and it's back, back- if you're parked on Waveland, check your windshields folks, that's a home run off the Mets' Wieczorek-"

    Crowd noise rises with the arc of the ball, plateaus, rolls off... baseball crowd noise is a drug... powerful, combined with the warm fuzzy of post-orgasm...

    Some undetermined amount of time later, different light coming through the glass block now, as my eyes open after feeling a nudge of one of my feet. It's Al, indicating silently with a thumb over his shoulder he's leaving. He turns, walks to kitchen door, exits quietly. Marcos is zonked, breathing through his mouth slightly ajar, looking content. Cubs down two in the bottom of the ninth.



    So that's what a circle jerk is like. With guys I actually know.

    And... love. I didn't have to run away after I had my nut..

    To sleep with him. Marcos. Still here.

    Soon.
     
  15. dannymawg

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    Part 3: September 1st - later that night



    My phone rings me out of my revelry - a superturgid piss boner, a still dream image of Marcos' arms around me, my hand down my shorts, local news on the TV, it's dark out. Kill TV, look at phone, number I don't recog-

    Marcos. Punch it.

    "Yo", in a better way than with Al earlier.

    "Danny? Marcos."

    "Mera, que guey."

    He launches into his Spanish that I still can't quite crack yet, having been around more Mexicans than Puerto Ricans. "Hey - hey, slow your roll. Ingles."

    A pause pregnant with seemingly more Spanish, he then says "Can you come by? Better for me to explain."

    How the hell it get to be 9:30? "Sure... gimme a minute. Out in the garage?" My mind in its haze thinks more sex.

    "Gracias - sí, but the big door close - gate open, come around, knock on small door."

    I have to piss in the shower because the few times I've tried to piss with a hard on into a toilet have been awkward and messy and painful. Boner subsiding, a minute to rinse the shower, and one to gather thoughts in the mirror...

    Aw, just go do it.



    I learn in the next fifteen or so minutes that Marcos woke up after the game, left me napping, came back here and started drinking after dinner, which he offers, but I decline. Because he's sitting on a stool, or rather has his weight triangulated between both feet and butt on stool, and looks to be in confessional - not looking up often, inspecting his hands, and smoking - the first time I've seen him do it, and ultra lights. Oh shit. He's gonna flip out about the JO session.

    "I told you bout Anna. I don't do this often. Talk like this, you know? It break my heart, her going. I really do - or did - love her. I love my kids." Twisting an imaginary ring on his left ring finger. "I try to do good by every body - I work hard, pay bills..."

    Something in my head shifts - the listener in me comes forward, front and center. "Marcos." A pause until he looks up. I sigh for courage and "we just met? But I feel like I know you a long time, and you know me... you feel this?", motioning between us.

    "Sí. Raitrú. Why I call."

    I want to lead into how quickly we identified each other as game, the circle jerk, maybe it will get the gay/not gay thing out on the table, but the missing ring twisting says otherwise. "I want you to feel comfortable with me. But it sounds like you're uncomfortable with..." Leaving the sentence unfinished, in case the circle jerk freaked him out - which I doubt. Or want to doubt.

    "No. The day we meet? I know you a good guy. I have friends, but not any to talk to, like this. Try something new with you," a sly little sparkle in his eye. A little sign to say what we have done earlier was not new to him. He's great at it.

    "Está bien... mi aprecio. Go on."

    Dead air, then: "My papa not around much. I get most every thing from mi abuelito, y hermano Raul. Grampai, he say: be true. To my God, my family, myself, my country, El Jota... Anna..." Motioning with a big hand in each direction of the words. "Grampai, he look at me, and look at me, and say 'you do what you do, but don' hurt nobody'". Pulls on beer.

    "And Anna hurt you?" Soon as the words are out of my mouth, they rearrange in my head to figure he hurt Anna.

    "'Don' hurt nobody', he say." Dead air. "But I hurt every body I fuck."

    Don't let him see you take that one in the wrong way. I need a minute to wrestle with it anyway. I avert my gaze.

    "Well, not every body, but always, a problem - I see porno, I can never fuck like in porno - you know?" Starts making the exaggerated fucking motions, we trade a smile, his breaks wistfully. "Anna, we together 10 year. All that time? Always problem. I tell you bout hospital..."

    "Sure, but..." I look down again. How do I steer this? Looking up, "you say everybody..."

    Marcos holds my gaze, expression unchanging. "Yea, I fuck around wit guys. You don' know?" with mock innocence, brows raised.

    "Girls too?"

    "Sí, chingar culo, crica... pinche culo firmemente. Every body too foquin... tight." A big, heavy, subtly cracking sigh, a weight lifted.

    "I can imagine, with pinga swingin like that."

    "Que guey, the girls around, they know what goes on," hiking his junk. In a falsetto, "Oooo, Marcos my new boytoy!... " Pause. "Until it get all... un-com-fortable," in his regular voice. "I have one guy, down at electrical union, guero boy in office, kinda gordo... he make sign, I go to his place, oooo I got big loose hole, even his too tight. I put bicho between legs, you know? Make like fuck that way? But no, eh... pen-a-tration. OK for a while... not the same, you know?"

    So he's trying to tell me he's a bad fuck? No stupid, he's confiding in you that his sex life is rough, and bringing him down. Still more disbelief in the face of such a huge dick, but here he is, sitting in front of me, picking at a hangnail. And a huge heart. Huge heart huge dick huge frame = an enormous beast when he gets his freak on.

    "Marcos... dude, I been around too. More guys than girls... and that has to be the biggest dick I've seen, ever." Geeking out. Stop it. "I feel you, man. That's gotta suck, not being able to get yer freak on." Pause. "There has to be someone out there for you, that can accommodate. If you've seen porn-" Porn is hardly reality. The gaping pussies and assholes you're thinking of now, aren't the norm... at least not in my circles, and Marcos is saying the same. "Ah... fuck porn - you know, porn ain't for real." Pause. "You, El Toro...", leaning over, poking a stiff index finger into the middle of his pecs, "...are for real."

    Where's a fucking camera when you need it: the silent bashful look I get from him is priceless. "You the real deal, primo. Porno, gaping pussy, big horse dick, that shit is few and far between. Look at our world, right? Too tight... sprained dick from goofy positions... people want to ride you every which way, unprepared, unsafe... use you like a toy... not caring... hurting people..." Pull on my beer. "You and Anna work on stretching out?" Immediately again realizing that yes it was the biggest I've seen in all respects, and it's not just length or girth but both combined, with a partner very petite, maybe all of 5 feet, so stretching might only work in the girth axis. Never been balls deep. Damn.

    "She... no."

    "No toys or nothin? No dildos?"

    "She make a face when I bring one home, make a big deal out of it, eh - being a fake of me..."

    Huh? Enormous dick? 'A fake of me?' No, it can't be... Cynthia? "You were casted? By Cynthia?"

    Marcos searches his memory. "Qué?"

    "Never mind. Long story." Cynthia got around enough to cast in plaster the phalluses of a number of hung rock stars and celebrities of varying caliber since the 60s, most notably Jimi Hendrix. Based out of Chicago. Cynthia Plaster Caster. "You make dildo of you?", making broad molding motions around an imaginary two foot erection, "or you buy one?"

    "Oh no, I buy."

    Fly on that wall.

    After conversing with Marcos for another few hours that night, lending ears, commiserating, liberating, staking of boundaries, a one-fist-to-the back guy hug, followed by a big bear hug, I returned down the alley to my place in mildly exhausted, slow steps. No action tonight.



    I was trying for weeks to not watch Marcos' window, but at 3 AM I'm awake, due to the nap we all copped during the game. Brush the covers, pad to the window in white socks, and he's there again, the light dimmer, his shadow darker, the same pensive position against the window frame again this time. He's been quick to be friendly... can care for things - his house, El J, works like a dog... sincere... affectionate... And maybe these few times I've caught him in the window like this are proof. But I dunno... neither one of us seems to acknowledge the other across the distance when it happens. I still don't know if he can even see me. 100 yards? Reflections in the window? But hangin out, it's like we've long known each other, or at least been in each others' shoes for a bit.

    I sat on the edge of my bed, thought about the crass gaping hole porn and continence, how my predilection towards topping all these years has kept me tight. Then I found my jock and track pants and shoes, keys, wallet, myself backing out of the garage, wondering if Marcos is watching.

    And after 4 AM, there is a fly on the wall, on the one of the cameras now, behind the register in the somewhat busy, midsize adult video/toy store I stand in, waiting for my "MONSTER COCK!!!" brand dildos to be rung up. I selected the biggest size I could without looking too ridiculous - then also a half size version. The Hilfilger daddy standing behind me has his credit card out already, a small black strap contraption dangling from the other hand. I smell his booze. Nasty harsh fluorescent Home Depot grid ceiling lighting. High energy dance radio pumps, and really loud female porno noises emanate from the arcade. I fight off the urge to get five in tokens.

    No. No one else. Going to be good to him. Knowing through his style of driving, his clear mannerisms, his choice of words, that he can be gentle, and aggressive. He just hasn't stumbled onto anyone patient or caring enough to stretch out for his bulk.

    Until he welcomed me to Bridgeport, back into which I travel, the lights in my favor most of the way down Halsted at almost 5 AM.



    My first wad hit the wall behind my head, with the half size in me halfway at 7 AM.
     
  16. Yawgrimas

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    Nice chapters and a nice story keep it up.
     
  17. dannymawg

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    Part 4 - October 1st



    Tonight, Marcos threw me the keys to El Jota. In a safety lane boogie, I have the long hood pointed down the Ryan, headed for the Skyway ramp.



    30 minutes earlier I had rang him, after spending a good portion of every weekend with him in the last month. I didn't want to look I was desperate or in puppy love or anything, and neither did he: we compensated by tinkering with El J, starting the rewiring of my place, only occasionally speaking of sexuality, and getting it on only one other time, which wound up as another but longer JO session, mano y mano. In there.



    Walking up to the garage the JO session flashes back the cop car was sitting right here: Marcos and I in the garage last weekend, bench racing, doors open, mid-afternoon, no tension between us. Car talk segues into sexual talk, more growing up experiences and value comparisons, personality probes, in the same low confessional voices we seem to fall into. We sit on the old barstools, I face the door, his back to the door and facing the bench, looks up from his glossy auto parts porn, waits to catch my eye, makes a "let's go" face, and growls one word:

    "Pu&#241;eta," closing the catalog.

    He's starting to recognize that hearing his Spanish makes me horny. "Dond&#233;? Aqu&#237;?", looking around. The roll-up door is wide open.

    Casting a mock casual glance over his shoulder, he pulls the waistbands of both underwear and brown "MC" sweats down past his nuts to expose his dong, head peeking out the foreskin, dark brown and gray and purple and pink all at the same time. Motions with a nod for me to touch him. At the instant I start reaching, I don't look at Marcos but out the door, and motion catches my eye - in the reflection of the big glass storm window propped on one wall, a Crown Vic grill, black on white. Shit. I pull my hand back just in time for a marked Chicago cop car to pull up and stop in the alley.

    The cop behind the wheel says loudly "Hey - necesito El Jota esta noche".

    Marcos slowly raises waistbands, to casually park his fists at his bent hips. As he does so, without looking up from his catalog, in a loud voice: "Mano! Por que no me lo prestaras, guey."

    So this is Raul, his brother I've been hearing about. Acknowledge, a short salute in his direction. Raul looks like Marcos, but in a weird, undefinable way - refined? Sleeker? Smaller... 7/8ths scale? Darker... Eyes connecting, his glowering, Raul looks like he should be a cop; Marcos could maybe pass for a cop, if he got a high and tight like Raul's. Try to get him to cut it someday. But I like the fact that Marcos doesn't cut his hair, as I take him, then Raul in during the rest of their exchange, Marcos getting up to walk to the window of the patrol car. Solid beefy football ass butt. More exchange, then in my direction: "and Danny here, he the one buy panader&#237;a." So far money hasn't been an issue for the parking of his work truck in one of the empty bays in my garage.

    Getting up to stand next to Marcos, I offer a verbal hello to a Marcos-caliber smile and hand from Raul in the driver's window - a subtle, yet vast 180 from the visage he wore pulling up the alley. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Dan." Somehow I pick up on the two of them making quick crotch hikes in the same moment, while making small talk.

    Raul departs slowly as schedules are exchanged, the roll-up door is then closed, and Marcos and I are now facing each other on the stools again, a bottle of Gun Oil between us, big cock demonstrations for each other. He grunts and squirts all over his legs and floor, then mildly and humorously hassles me on my nut, this time rather paltry. We use shop rags to clean up. We take turns at the carboy urinal. Piss out taboo thought of them tag teaming me.



    Tonight, his basement door was ajar, gap lit dark red. I push it open to find Marcos, on a weight bench in nondescript workout gear - gray cutoff t-shirt, grey gym shorts, both the same shade, looking military. He's showing. Half hard. No underwear. Slow jungle drum n bass from a boombox. Kinda looking porno, actually. Or slightly "American Beauty". He sees me, sets his press down, crunches up and leans over to snatch a handful of something on the table with the boombox. He lobs it at my chest - keys, GM. Brown suede fob. Pontiac logo.

    Back to bench pressing, "Go for a ride. Cool out tonight. Good air. Open her up."

    "Yeah?"

    "Yeah." Pause. "And Danny?"

    He locks eyes, and says "You be good," smile cracking.

    "You know it, man. Thanks. How far?"

    "Just go. You got a phone. I call when worried."



    After exiting the Ryan ramp, I pop the console - Marcos had installed a stealth system, a blue LED apparition in otherwise decidedly incandescent interior lighting. At least it's hidden.

    "without this safety net / you're freed"

    If I softshoe on the three-quarters tank El Jota has, I can make it pretty far into Michigan.

    "to find serene / pleasure of speed"

    I pay the toll, roll out past the dumbass McDonalds oasis, and nail it.

    "erupting / violent machine"

    The Skyway lights start streaming. I back off the throttle coming down the bridge.

    "precise exultance / so serene"



    I made it to Traverse City before I got nervous about a call and gas was low. Turned back and held 75 until the Skyway lights were rolling into the long hood again. Back before dawn, at least.

    Marcos doesn't keep a door opener in the car, so I let the basso profundo of El Jota's lumpy idle announce my presence. I see him down the gangway through his gate, black doo rag, dark track pants, same gray undershirt, sandals. I back in, shut down, get out. Tired and exhilarated. My legs feel as they did as I was climbing the spiral stairs that first night. El Jota's idle makes me horny. Now that it's shut down, I want more.

    "So how she do?", Marcos with a motion towards the car. The same motion on its way down has his fingertips grazing the back of my arm.

    "Great, man... so smooth... torque! My god, it pulls..." Shaking my head.

    His arm outstretched, heavy hand shaking my shoulder. "Nice, eh?"

    I make a "no doubt" face, and his eyes search it. After a few moments, he has the beginnings of kissy face. The ticking heat from El Jota warms the garage. His hand drops to stroke my back. Our free hands start exploring each other.



    We make out against El Jota for what seems an hour, pants around ankles, no words exchanged, serious soul searching going on. Marcos eventually trying to mount my hole which I quietly shut down. Arms crossed in the channel between top of fender and C-pillar, I lock my hamstrings, the insides of my thighs around his cock, spread my feet as far as my pants will allow, and brace. Marcos knows the drill from the guero office boy, pants and humps wordlessly from behind, a bronzed, grunting gentle giant, reaching around to jack me off with a fist full of spit.

    At one point he takes a step sideways to relocate me, across the trunk, frisk style- Raul?... his humping pushing me against the fender, his big fist connecting with sheetmetal to make a few dull thumps before he realizes to leave jacking space yeah don't fuck up the car and backs off a bit. Ramping up to release almost immediately, Marcos bites me hard on the neck, clamping hard and not letting go, a guttural, repetitive "un... un..." describing his nut busting, and the backside of my fat Celtic nutsack is soon coated and dripping with his copious load. His jaw relents, his body leans into mine for support, jacking me fluidly, and I shoot my load in the wheelwell and on the tire, Marcos directing the streams.



    Goddamn, that hurt. That's gonna show, the mirror tells me.

    And it feels like I was straddling a steam pipe.
     
  18. dannymawg

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    Part 5 - November 1st



    I can now take about 7/10ths of the full size dildo I bought. The dildos turned out to be of a harder, more unforgiving material to the inside of my ass than my hand had casually judged in the store. Maybe oversizing will do the trick, I had thought.

    It's not so much Indian summer anymore, when it's been in the fifties during the day for 2 weeks now. Extending El Jota's season. I've found out one of Marcos' vices - street racing. "The only gamble I enjoy," he says. We're in El Jota, on the 103rd St. ramp to hit the 103rd and Stony action tonight.

    Stony Island Av. becomes a 6 lane thoroughfare at 95th leading into the Bishop Ford Expressway, but picks up again as a wide industrial access road at 103rd, with a kink in the middle. I've seen street action down here before, in my delivery truck days - most notably a strobing cop car in a smoky burnout to signal "show's over" for a night's racing.



    Marcos chats up the owner of a 91-ish 5.0 Mustang, pointing at me occasionally. Flag and/or money man tonight.

    El Jota and the Mustang line up, bleach is thrown down, tires warmed - signal dropped, and the Mustang slips sideways as El Jota digs in and rises like a lineman out of a three point stance.

    Money collected, boasting and griping exchanged, he scoops me up and blasts 10/10ths down the rest of 103rd to 122nd, 122nd after the bridge to Torrance, 8/10ths down Torrance to 130th around the Ford plant, and smoothly dodges potholes as he exits 130th onto Doty, a frontage road to the Bishop Ford. Not until the exit do I speak "Volandos bajito guey!", knowing that this stretch of road is mostly used by gravel and concrete trucks and is not conducive to speed.

    Slowing, Marcos looks over at me, eyes bright with adrenaline, and I at him. He's pulling on his dick in his track pants, killing the lights before swinging the long hood into a defunct concrete depot driveway, it curving several times to clear ditches lining the driveway with cattails. He's going to fuck the shit out of me. Or something... to work off the adrenaline.

    With quick motions, we're out of the car. Marcos is expressionless, one hand down his pants, a vigilant gaze up and down the gravel road as he slowly steps around to my side of the car. I'm guessing we have five, maybe 10 minutes, or until we see lights. He passes in front of me and disappears into the cattails.

    About a hundred feet into the cattails reveals the strange, dark, industrial pool of Lake Calumet, and a picnic table on a lonely mound at its edge. For years I had seen cars parked along the frontage road, some with a figure approaching or departing with a pole and tackle. Here was where they were fishing from. I note the lack of debris, condom wrapper or fast food or otherwise.

    Marcos motions towards the table, and as I move, his hands positioning me in what I briefly imagine the moves Raul would use in a frisk, another frisk? dryhumping me through his track pants as he undoes my jeans, slips hands into waistbands to push my underwear and jeans past my ass, pushes on my shoulder blades, then fumbling with something and hawking spit- more fumbling, a condom, he brought one with?, lines up knob with hole-

    "Dude-" without looking at him I find the courage to say the words "this will go easier if we go home." Rising and turning back to look at him, "I like it outdoors and shit, but I'm too wound up to loosen up." But I want to see if my work has paid off. And it is kinda nice out tonight. El Jota somewhat hidden from plain view...

    "I have to nut, bad." Adrenaline. I look down at the silhouette of his cock in the darkness - its sheer size has my hole immediately clenching. He spins me around and pushes me down against the table. Whoa- hostile!?

    I consider asking him if this is the way it went with Anna, but opt for no buzzkill. Turning back again to catch him full in the eye, "Marcos. Let's go home."

    He holds still for a moment. Then, with an aggressive push off my shoulders, Marcos pulls up his track pants, tucking his softening dong in his underwear, eyes locked on me as I turn to rise, looking pissed and relenting at the same time. The one that likes to bite me. There's the beast in him. Thought so. Machismo. Pride. Be cool.
     
  19. Ethyl

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    *sweats*

    feeling a need to assist you with the editing again..
     
  20. dannymawg

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    On the way home we decide on his place using few words, first the garage, then his bed. Marcos' bedroom is spacious, the back half of an attic conversion, ceiling vaulted, east view. Butter colored walls, the color of the yellowish light always behind him in the window. A four post bed, dark thick wood, with red flannel sheets. I take my time cleaning out in the shower, coming out to find Marcos' broad back to me, sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Not sure what he's doing.

    "Hey."

    "Que." As I approach, I see he's in confessional mode again. Prayer? Looks up at me, expressionless. Adrenaline rush gone.

    I sit next to him, we make out a bit, he pushes me back on the bed, reaches to put out the light. Rolling me on my right side, Marcos pulls up covers, spoons behind me, drapes a heavy arm, he starts to inhale, exhale, slowly. Studied. No breathing theatrics.

    His body is a furnace under here. Good for winter.

    He's semi hard, but not moving.

    Soon he's asleep. He snores.

    I've never been able to sleep well with anyone in a bed.

    Before?



    We're in almost the same position we fell asleep in. He's making out gently with the back of my neck and ears, favoring where he likes to bite. I'm gonna have to get a tattoo or something to cover that up. What feels like a knuckled hot dog is making a gentle in/out/around motion at my hole. I'm rock hard. A slight shift between bodies. He is, too. My right arm is asleep. With my left, I move the pillow from under my head to my groin, and roll onto my stomach, feeling the blood return to my arm.

    As I roll, Marcos pushes back the covers and crouches on top of me, knees on either sides of my hips, exploring with hands and cock, reaching for a condom and lube.

    I want to tell him- I mutter into the mattress "I've been working on it."

    "Hm?"

    "I've been working on it. Loosening up. So I can take you. Vaya lento, papi."

    He leans to one of my ears, gives it a gentle wet willie and a pulling bite, says into it in the lowest growl I've heard out of him yet: "Eso es lo que quiero oír, Danny boy... te la quiero meter bien rico y hasta adentro. No te lastimare, papito."

    After the evidence in the cattails, I was expecting harsher treatment, even after all the talking we've done - but here in bed Marcos is rather gentle and has an incredible agility for his bulk against soft mattress. Through one or two word exchanges and a loss of the awareness of time, what seems like it's been an hour?, I've got him inside me. Almost to the hilt. His pelvic bone conforms to my ass in short humps, gaining yardage with each drive. Some more acclimation, gasping, accommodation, swearing, angle and pillow adjustment, some more swearing, blood oxygen OK, senses steadied, more yardage and I say "OK. Go for it."

    Expecting him to maybe get angry with it, he instead clamps his arms and picks me up and ramps up to fluid sawing in and out. My eyes water, my thoughts empty.

    "Oh Danny… tienes un culito bien rico!! Estas bien apretado... y me gusta como... aprietas la verga. Shit..."

    "Yeah... c'mon, Marcos... c'mon... AH! Shit!... ungh!" It's like my prostate is being massaged lengthwise by a baseball bat. I want to yell "stop" - don't. Take it like a man.

    "Yeah?"

    "Yeah, c'mon papi. I gotcha, boricua. I'm OK. Breed my Irish ass. Let's go." Backing into him on the 'go'. My god he's gonna rip me apart...

    "Quieres esta verga, papi? La quieres? Eh? Tu sabes como moverte para metertela mejor…" His rhythm picks up. "Quiero metertela hasta adentro, cabron… ah!... abrete las nalguitas cabron!!... sacame la leche, cabron sucio!!!... Ai, shit!..."

    There's the beast again. "Drop- your weight- on me."

    "Eh?"

    "Dejate caer sobre mi..." Marcos seems to know what I'm after, and his agility shows again - he's got enough weight distributed to pin me good, pressing me further into the mattress with each fuck and grunt with abandon, and a hand left over to run up and down my flanks.

    "Eso Danny… te quiero partir papi ahorita mismo… ahi, te- va- toda- mi- verga… abrete, cabroncito... que sabes, que te gusta bien fuerte... y sabes- como! hacerlo!..."

    Condom breakage enters the mind - I let it go. Trust. Courage. Foolishness. In between grunts I say "You... un... uh- think the- condom's- OK?"

    I can feel his mind process that by the stutter in his rhythm, and he pulls out, all the way. Oh my God put it back in. I can feel my gaping porno hole now. Crass, but for real. Marcos does a quick check, a short "Sí", mounts again, starts to slide back in. Remarkably, my ass is numb and receptive. Dumbstruck. I hope it'll close up. And it's tactile now... I can feel where the condom he has on is unrolled to.

    Another round of pounding for him to regain what mounting orgasm was lost during the check, and his arms clamp tighter, huge hands gripping, humping involuntarily as he starts to let go in my ass, the growl turning into that "Aii... ai guey!!!... un... un!... " signaling his point of no return, and twitching whimpers and powerful spastic breaths exhale between my shoulder blades with each pulse and swell of his massive cock. This time he didn't bite me.



    Then, as the pulsing subsides, the moment I've been waiting for - the weight of Marcos' world, slowly settling down on me. "Ohhh... mannnn..." I groan into the mattress as I relish it for as long as it can last. I could do this forever.

    As soon as my body feels his cock softening, my ass begins to squeeze. It takes a second attempt to put him all out. Once out, I feel the sensation of gaping fully. Something's not right, down there. Distended is the word.

    Grinding my ass, sniffing a couple places in between words, Marcos growls again behind an ear "Oh, Danny boy… mi papito, no sabes como me haces sentir… estas bien sabroso... me podria coger ese culito siempre.” Nuzzles and kisses my neck. On his spot. That he likes to bite.

    "Roll off me a bit. Pero quedate cerca." He does, keeping an arm across my back, angled to cup a big slow hand around the back of my skull, rubbing my buzz cut, kneading my neck, running it down my back and up again to repeat.

    We stay like this, me still face down on the bed, him alongside, until I fall almost to sleep. I raise my head to slurp in drool, he shifts his weight again, then rises from the bed, and attends to the condom in the bathroom.

    Sound of heavy pissing.

    Reassumes his original position. I feel him settle, more minor shifting. The arm parks across my back, big hand slowly rubbing the back of my head, heavy enough to tip me into unconsciousness after all that...

    His hand feels big enough to crush my head.



    The sun is coming up.



    Wet down there. Mattress too.



    Hope it'll close up. Keep my shit.




    Guess I nut later.

     
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