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Suburban Nights.
I love to walk the suburbs in the small hours of the morning, when the pale blue moonlight catches the steam in my breath and I share the streets with only other shadows and occasional cats. I feel strangely liberated, knowing mine are the only footsteps echoing from the paving stones. Everything else that walks at night does so softly, it's only us upright apes that make such a racket. So, as the heavens perform their slow, strict dance above me, I rattle my own on the chaos of the earth.
From time to time I'd pass, at a distance if it can be helped, another soul like me, hooded in darkness but for the fire fly light of a cigarette. It's always men, too. Women are more indelibly sensible to the dangers of night time, I think. But men sometimes need comforts that you can't find in a warm bed. The comfort of being alone and unobserved by anything but the cats' eyes gleaming from beneath bumpers and the silent constellations, impassive above, the relief of the rules and standards of everyday life loosening, and a passing reconnection to a wilder ancestry.
It was bright as three AM can be that night as, two edibles to the wind I made my meandering way through the streets of my neighbourhood. It was not yet autumn and only the first small mounds of fallen leaves had collected in the gutters. In a month there would be piles, a foot high in places, strewn kickably all along the pavements as the trees planted drop their summer coats. The air had a slight chill so I'd pulled on the hoodie that matched my pants before heading out for a stroll to clear my head and have the world spin less. It had begun to work and my senses had come back into focus, enjoying the secret details that only habitual night time perambulators like me have a chance to learn. Without traffic you can hear the rush of drains beneath the street, the musical pings from the cooling of a recently parked car, the polite call and response neighbouring owls or the unholy ones of the foxes and cats. Footsteps, too, sometimes, and that night they were coming from ahead, and were soon followed by a man approaching on the same side of the street as me.
We all perform a calculation at moments like this, especially at night when the rules are different, assessing the threat potential and measuring possible responses. I could cross, but that might show weakness, or I could do my best impression of a man and stride confidently past. He was perhaps a little shorter than me, maybe 5'10 to my 6'1", but he looked stockier, muscular under his jacket, the broad curve of his shoulders making crescents in the full moon. "Yeah, not even close." I thought, lamenting my own very average body, or rather my very average motivation to work out, and I looked up to his face. Man, he was handsome, too, or seemed to be in the granite grey light. I suppose the moon is flattering to everyone, making all its subjects statuesque, but this guy looked like he'd take a good mugshot. I guessed he'd been making the same appraisal of me because our eyes met for an instant and something wordless that I couldn't name passed between us. I would soon discover what it was but at that moment it startled me and I looked away before, like needles to the pole star, I found myself looking back into those shadow pooled eyes. He hadn't broken his gaze or his stride, and his eyes stayed on mine as he came closer. I realized I'd forgotten how to walk and I stood there, transfixed like a rabbit that knows the fox has it cornered.
"Follow me." He said, as he passed on my left hand side, and I felt a slap of a heavy palm on my butt cheek. I must have jumped a foot in the air and I landed clumsily but upright. I span around, astonished, to see him continuing to walk down the path. He looked no less impressive from behind, his broad back tapering to a round, meaty ass that lifted left then right as he strode on. I had no calculations I could make, now. This was an entirely novel experience for me. Instinct was my only guide, and instinct told me emphatically that I should follow this wild stranger from out of the night.
Wordlessly he led me back along the street I'd come down and then into a side street I rarely passed through. His steps were sure and confident and I guessed he knew the place well. He didn't look back at me, though of course knew I was following, obediently, a few steps behind. I took this opportunity to get a better look at him. He wore polished brown leather shoes and well cut jeans that showed off his strong legs. His jacket was casual but expensive with the glint of a gold watch at the end of the left sleeve and his dirty blond, just too stylish to be military hair fading into his wide neck at the collar. There was a faint trail of cologne like spice and woodsmoke that follwed him as I was doing, and it's sweet scent helped reassure me that this was not some trip my stoned mind was taking.
About halfway down the third street we reached a turning into a narrow path between properties, tall fences on both sides. It seemed to be used as a general dumping ground for household items nobody wants but are too lazy to take to the dump. There was an old, battered leather sofa, a tear transversing one cushion and the other dubiously stained. An old wardrobe leaned against a fence, the mirror on its door now lying half shattered on the ground. The man led me behind the wardrobe, where the only view of us would be from above. I gingerly stepped over the shards of glass to follow and found him leaning with his back against the fence, much like the wardrobe, and he faced me for the first time since he'd ordered me to come with him.
Despite the darkness of the alley I could make out a trace of mirth on his chiseled features as he regarded me. He'd known I'd follow, that I'd come unquestioning to this hidden place, that I'd come to his mercy. He seemed to drink the moment in, letting the leash play just a little longer. I was still that cornered rabbit, at the end of a tunnel I should probably have avoided, heart thumping as adrenaline drove out any remnant of my edible high.
Still looking directly at me he reached for his belt and I heard the pull then clink of his buckle being unthreaded. I looked down to see him open the buttons on his fly and I could see pale boxers beneath, the fabric stretched over the roundness of his swelling crotch. "On your knees, slut." He said, his voice gruff but clear, loud in the stillness. The only other sounds were our breathing and the faint rustle of leaves in the light breeze. Thinking only long enough to check the ground for glass I sank down, my knees pressing into the soft dirt of the alley way. That spice and woodsmoke was clearer now, but with it was another, richer tone, the sweat of heavy balls and a constantly stirring dick in pants that can't always contain them. He pulled at his jeans waistband and hoisted them down past his ass, and I could now see the full outline of thick cock, stretching out around eight inches to the left and nearly touching his hip. I licked my lips as I drank in the moment, the excitement of being on my knees for a beast like that.
"You want that big dick in your whore mouth, huh?" He said, grabbing at his cock and pulling it forward and rubbing the head on my top lip. It was wet with precum and he coated my nose with it until all I could smell was his dick sweat, cum and stale piss.
"Yeah, I want to suck your big dick so fucking much." I answered between breaths of him. He teased my mouth with it, and I opened, kissing and lapping at the taste he'd given me.
"Ok, bitch. Kneel with your back against the fence." He stepped out of the way and gestured to where he'd been leaning. I quickly shuffle around and positioned my self as he'd instructed, kneeling with my ass on my heels and my shoulders against the wood of the fence. In a moment he was in front of me and above me, his feet planted on either side of my knees. He had unhooked his dick from his boxers and it now stood out, still with a slight left curve, foreskin pulled half back from the glistening head as he reached full erection. I felt a hand at my head, pulling it back before another appeared at my lips, slipping into my mouth and pulling it open. His finger tasted of salt and cigarette smoke. I looked up, his face now dark in silhouette. I heard, then felt him spit into my mouth, once, twice, three times, before using his fingers to smear the saliva over my tongue and lips. Then, still holding my mouth open with one finger, he pushed my head forward again and guided his dick inside. His hard dick filled my mouth, the precum adding to the slickness he'd already made, and I stretched my mouth wider to accommodate it. I felt his finger pull out.
"Any teeth and a kick your sorry ass, faggot." It felt like a promise. Whatever pretence that this was going to be a blow job quicky dissolved as, with barely a preamble, he began driving his dick into my mouth in deep, rapid thrusts, hitting my throat and causing me to cough and splutter, all the the back of my head was banging out the same rhythm on the fence. Yeah, this wasn't sex, I realised as he slapped my face hard, never breaking time.
"No teeth, bitch. That's your only warning." I tried to find a few more millimetres in my already stretched jaw. No, this wasn't sex. This wasn't a hook-up. This was a dick using a convenient, warm hole to nut inside of. The simplicity of it, the urgency filled my head (yes, literally as well as figuratively), and I opened myself up to my role as receptacle, focusing on accommodating each thrust of this stranger's primal need for release. He was grunting, now, lost inside his the moment of wildness he'd come here for, his need to dominate, his need to fuck, his need to plant his seed. My hard gripped at his thighs as he gave me the full length one last time and I felt I'd almost be pushed through the fence. His cock was pulsing in my throat, blocking off the air and I squirmed, grinding my knees into the earth as he ground his balls into my chin. But breathing didn't matter, not to me, and certainly not to him. The only thing that mattered was his pleasure and his release. Then, just as I worried I couldn't take any more I felt his balls tighten before his cock pulsed harder and I knew he was unloading down my throat. He then pulled out and, taking his dick in his hand, he continued shooting strand after of thick, hot cum into my waiting mouth and over my upturned face. His breathing slowed as his orgasm slipped away. He continued to look down at me, his face still dark and unreadable, no hint of what he thought of the site he saw. A moment passed and I heard the clink of his belt again. He turned away and, pulling his jeans back up and fastening his belt as he went, he walked back out of the alley and out of my life, leaving me kneeling in the dirt where he had used me with nothing to show for it but another reason to walk at night.
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