I never planned on telling anyone about that night, but here it goes. It was the kind of summer heat that sticks to your skin and makes everything feel urgent. I was twenty-four, working late at the warehouse, when my coworker Mark offered me a ride home after our shifts ended. We had flirted for weeks with quick glances and accidental touches, but nothing real until he parked behind the closed bar down the street and killed the engine.
Mark was older, built like he lifted more than boxes, with rough hands and a low voice that already had me half hard. He turned to me and said, "You been wanting this as bad as I have?" I nodded, throat dry. He leaned over and kissed me hard, tongue pushing in without asking. His hand went straight to my crotch, squeezing my cock through my jeans until I groaned into his mouth.
We didn't make it to anyone's place. The backroom of that bar was unlocked because Mark knew the owner, a dark space with a worn couch and the smell of old beer and sweat. He shoved me against the wall the second the door closed. "Strip," he ordered, and I did, yanking off my shirt and kicking free of my boots and pants. My cock stood out, leaking already, and Mark stared like he wanted to devour it.
He dropped to his knees right there on the concrete floor and took me into his mouth without warning. Hot, wet suction pulled me deep, his tongue sliding along the underside while his hand worked the base. I grabbed his hair and thrust, fucking his face because he moaned around me like he loved it. Spit ran down my balls. He pulled off just long enough to say, "Fuck my throat," then took me again, gagging but not stopping.
I came fast the first time, shooting thick ropes down his throat while he swallowed every drop. My legs shook. Mark stood up, wiped his mouth, and shoved his own jeans down. His cock was thicker than mine, veined and curved up toward his stomach. "Turn around," he said. I bent over the arm of the couch, ass up, heart pounding.
He spat on his fingers and worked two inside me without much prep. It burned, then spread into a deep ache that made my spent cock twitch again. He added more spit, scissoring me open while he stroked himself. When he pushed in, it was slow at first, then all the way with one hard thrust. I yelled, half pain, half the best feeling I'd ever had. He gripped my hips and started pounding, balls slapping against me, the couch creaking under us.
Mark fucked like he meant it, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, hitting that spot that made me see white. I reached down and jerked my cock in time with his thrusts.
Sweat dripped from his chest onto my back. He leaned over and bit my shoulder, growling filthy things about how tight I was and how he was going to fill me up. I begged him not to stop.
He came with a grunt, pulsing hot and deep inside me, his cock throbbing as he emptied. The feeling pushed me over again; I shot onto the couch cushions while he stayed buried in me, grinding through the aftershocks. We stayed like that for a minute, breathing hard, his weight on my back.
Later we cleaned up with paper towels from the bar and sat on the couch smoking. Mark told me he had wanted me since the first day I showed up for work. I admitted it was my first time with a man. He smiled, slow and dirty, and said there would be more nights like this. We went at it again before morning, slower the second round, me riding him while he held my waist and watched my cock bounce.
That was years ago, but I still think about the raw way he took me, no hesitation, just pure need. It was the realest thing I had ever felt.
