I Agreed to What My Friend Asked Me for in His Car

It was Saturday night and the house was so silent I could hear the refrigerator humming from the couch. I’d been sprawled in front of the TV for hours, flipping through channels without getting hooked on any of them, with a glass of ice melting on the coffee table. It was close to eleven when my phone buzzed and I saw his name on the screen.

Mateo wasn’t the kind of friend who wrote every day. I saw him every three or four months, almost always at someone else’s birthday, and we always ended up stepping outside to talk at some point. We’d been drinking together two weeks earlier, and between one beer and the next I’d half-jokingly confessed that I’d had a fantasy running through my head for months: a blowjob inside a car, in some poorly lit parking lot, with the fear in the background that someone might show up. He’d laughed and said he liked the idea more than he’d expected.

—What are you doing? —he wrote.

—Nothing, watching TV. You?

He took thirty seconds to reply.

—I need a blowjob.

I stared at the message with my thumb hovering over the screen. I read it three times. The first time, I felt a twist in my stomach. The second, my mouth went dry. The third, I was already calculating how long it would take me to get to the industrial park area where people sometimes parked to avoid being seen. My dick was getting hard before I even answered, my cock pressing against my sweatpants, and I grabbed it over the fabric without thinking, squeezing it as I reread those three words.

I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. I had a bottle of vodka half-finished on top of the microwave. I poured myself a short shot and knocked it back in one go, feeling the burn in my chest and the bitter taste on my tongue. I needed to shake off the thinking part of my brain, the part that was going to sabotage me with last-minute arguments. I don’t have to say yes. I can say I’m tired. But the truth was different: for months the fantasy had been putting me to sleep and waking me up, months of imagining myself on my knees in a passenger seat with a stranger’s cock pounding against the back of my throat.

—Where? —I wrote.

—In the lot behind the old supermarket. In fifteen minutes.

I put on comfortable pants, a dark T-shirt, and sneakers. I didn’t look in the mirror, because I knew that if I looked I’d start looking for an excuse. I closed the door quietly, as if I were afraid of waking someone, even though I lived alone. I took the stairs two at a time and got into my car. My hands trembled a little when I put the key in.

I drove slowly through the empty streets. The dashboard clock said eleven twenty. The city seemed to be holding its breath. At the traffic lights I glanced around for no reason, as if I expected someone to recognize me. Nobody knows you. Nobody’s looking at you. My cock had been hard against the seam of my pants since I left the building, and every bump in the road shook it and reminded me what I was going for.

I got to the lot and slowed down. It was a cracked concrete expanse, with two flickering lampposts and a pile of stacked plastic crates against the wall of the shuttered supermarket. At the back, next to a rusty dumpster, was Mateo’s car. He flashed me his lights.

I parked behind him and took a deep breath. I turned off the engine. For a moment I considered starting it again and going home. Then I opened the door and got out.

He got out too. We stood there for a second in the middle of the two cars, looking at each other like two guys who had never done anything like this before.

—In yours or mine? —he asked.

—Yours —I said without thinking.

I got in on the passenger side. It smelled like cheap air freshener and fresh sweat. He settled into the driver’s seat, slid his seat back a little, and turned to look at me. His eyes were bright and his mouth was slightly open. It was the first time I’d ever seen him with that expression.

—You’re nervous —he said.

—A lot.

He smiled. He lifted a hand and laid it on my chest, right over my T-shirt. My nipples are a weak spot few people discover right away, but I’d told him that night of beers, and he remembered. He ran his thumb over the fabric. I held my breath. He did it again, this time with his whole palm, and my skin prickled under the cotton.

—Tell me if you want me to stop —he murmured.

I didn’t answer. I closed my eyes. He understood.

He pinched my nipples through my shirt and I let out a short breath, as if the air had been knocked out of me. He pulled my shirt up to my neck, bunched it under my chin, and took both nipples between his fingers. He squeezed them hard, twisting them slowly enough to rip a rough groan from the back of my throat. He leaned in and took one into his mouth, sucking it wetly while his free hand squeezed the other just to the exact point between pleasure and pain. I felt my cock throbbing inside my pants, a dull pounding that climbed all the way to my navel. He pulled my collar down with one finger and kissed my shoulder. It wasn’t a loving kiss; it was a warning kiss, a kiss that said what we had come here to do was going to happen.

—You’re showing it down there —he said, his mouth still against my chest, and slid his hand over the bulge—. You’re rock hard.

—Shut up and keep going —I murmured, and I didn’t recognize my own voice.

When I get turned on, nothing matters anymore. It’s like a key turns inside me and every doubt that was shouting five minutes earlier shuts off abruptly. In that passenger seat, with Mateo’s hand still on my chest, the key turned.

He moved first. He loosened his belt, pulled his pants and underwear down halfway over his thigh. He was fully erect, pressed against his stomach, gleaming under the yellowish light from the lamppost. He was thick, thicker than I’d imagined, with a pronounced vein running underneath and the head swollen and red, already beaded with a thick drop at the tip. His balls hung tight, pressed against the base, and a warm smell of skin and sex reached me from the driver’s seat. He leaned back and looked at me.

—Come closer —he said.

I leaned over the gearshift. The position was uncomfortable, but I didn’t care anymore. I felt his hand settle on the back of my neck, soft at first, guiding, asking. I stuck out my tongue and brushed the tip. I gathered up that thick drop and rolled it around on my palate. It was salty, dense, with that unmistakable half-formed semen taste. He let out a low whimper, as if he’d been holding it in for hours.

—Suck it properly —he said—. Like you wanted.

I took it all into my mouth. It was hot, hard, throbbing. I liked feeling the weight on my tongue, the smell of clean skin, the way Mateo’s fingers closed in my hair when I went lower. I started slowly, gauging how much I could take without gagging. I pulled back to the tip, ran my tongue around the head in circles, and then sank down halfway again. Then I licked the whole shaft underneath, from the base to the tip, with my tongue flat and pressed down, leaving a shiny trail of saliva under the lamppost light. I went lower, to the balls, and took them in one by one, sucking them gently while I gripped his cock with my hand and worked it up and down. He let me go for the first minute, his breathing breaking on every exhale.

Then he put both hands on my head.

—Like this —he whispered.

And he started moving. He fucked my mouth slowly at first, then faster. I let myself be carried along. My mouth produced a lot of saliva, it ran down the side and wetted his base, dripping in drops onto his balls. With each thrust he pushed it a little farther in, until the tip touched the back of my throat and I convulsed in a short gag that only turned him on more. He pulled out, I took a breath through my nose, and he plunged back in. I ran my tongue over the head every time he gave me a break, taking him up and down as best I could. I could feel his cock getting harder and harder, and his thighs trembling under my free hand. He moaned through clenched jaws, as if he didn’t want to make noise but couldn’t help it.

—Look at your mouth filling up with cock —he panted—. Look at me.

I looked up without taking him out. He had his head thrown back against the headrest and was looking at me out of the corner of his eye. The sight tore another groan from him and he pushed my neck a centimeter deeper.

—You have no idea how much I imagined you like this —he said.

I couldn’t answer him. My mouth was full. But something inside me swelled when he said it. I was being what he’d wanted for weeks, and that was almost as exciting as having him in my mouth. Saliva ran down my chin and dripped onto the seat. I felt it warm against my own skin and didn’t care.

Suddenly, spinning lights swept across the car roof. A faint siren, like a whine, passed nearby. We both froze. Mateo shoved me down with a burst of panic that left me sprawled across the passenger seat, bent over in the footwell, my mouth still full of the taste of his cock. He pulled his pants up halfway and lowered his head too.

—It’s the city police —he murmured—. Don’t move.

The beam of light passed over the rear window, paused for a moment on the abandoned cars in the back, and moved on. The engine noise faded down the street. Three minutes passed before I could breathe normally again. Mateo raised his head carefully.

—They’re gone —he said.

—Do we keep going?

I looked at him from below. His face was flushed, his hair tousled, his breathing ragged. His erection hadn’t gone down a millimeter; it was peeking over his half-pulled-up pants, still shining with my saliva.

—Do you want to? —he asked.

I nodded.

—Let’s move. There’s a quieter spot three blocks away.

***

He started the car. I sat up straight and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. While he drove, he rested his hand on my thigh. He never moved it. The traffic light glow lit his face in patches, and every time it turned red and we stopped, he squeezed my leg as if to warn me this wasn’t over. At one light he slid his hand up to my bulge and squeezed my cock over my pants, and I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh.

He parked on a dead-end street behind a closed warehouse. There was no light except for a neon sign half a block away that buzzed dully.

—Nobody comes here —he said.

He turned off the engine. The silence was brutal. All you could hear was the buzz of the sign and our breathing.

This time he didn’t wait for me to lean over. He unbuttoned his pants again, pulled them all the way down to his knees, and was left completely exposed from the waist down. He took his cock in his right hand and started jerking off slowly, pulling the skin back to expose the red, glossy head, showing it to me shamelessly. With his other hand he stroked his balls, squeezing them softly against his body. I watched him. The submission that had taken hold of me throughout the whole ride was complete: he moved his hand, I waited.

—Come here —he said—. Open your mouth.

I leaned in again, this time without the urgency of the first round. I opened wide and he rested the tip against my lips, rubbing it all over my face, over my cheeks, over my nose, marking me with a trail of saliva and pre-cum before putting it in. I took it all the way in. He rammed it to the back of my throat in one thrust and I coughed, my eyes filled with tears, and even then I didn’t let it go. His hand bumped against my lips while he kept jerking off, alternating between letting me do the work and grabbing himself. I ran my tongue over him, up and down, tasting every inch. He pulled it out of my mouth and rubbed it against my closed lips, against my chin, and I opened again like a dog waiting for food. I sucked his balls one at a time, while with my hand I worked his cock myself, gripping it from the base and pumping it to the tip. I could hear him moaning in a lower, more intimate register, as if the second round was for himself and not for both of us.

—You suck so good, you motherfucker —he murmured—. You were made for this.

The head of his cock swelled even more, his balls tightened against the base, and I knew how to read those signs. He was about to come. In that conversation weeks ago, I’d told him another fantasy: having someone finish in my mouth. Feeling it hot and thick on my tongue. He remembered.

—Do you want my load? —he asked in a broken voice.

—Yes.

—All of it?

—All of it.

—Stick out your tongue. Let me see it.

I took his cock out of my mouth and stuck out my tongue, flat, obedient, lips parted and my eyes locked on his. He grabbed the base with his hand, aimed the head at my tongue, and jerked it three quick times with his fist. That was enough to strip away the last bit of control. He squeezed the base with his hand, shoved it to the back of my mouth, and said:

—Here it comes.

I felt the first wave explode onto my tongue. Hot, salty, alive. A thick jet that slapped against my palate and ran down the back. Then the second, the third, more spurts, each one accompanied by a spasm in his hips that drove his cock against my throat. He pressed my face against him hard, not letting me escape, and I took everything he had. My mouth filled with hot, thick semen; I felt it sliding down the sides of my tongue, filling my palate. I didn’t lose a single drop. I swallowed with my eyes closed, feeling the taste go down my throat in two thick gulps. I ran my tongue over the head, cleaning off the last drops, and he jerked at the sensitivity.

When he let me go, I stayed like that for a second, my mouth still pressed to his skin, breathing in gasps. He caressed the back of my neck with unexpected tenderness.

—Look what you did —he said, almost laughing, looking down at his belly—. You took it all.

—Open your mouth —he added after a moment, with a tired smile.

I opened it. He inspected it with his eyes, checking that it was empty, that I’d swallowed every last drop. He nodded, satisfied.

I sat back in my seat and, with the taste still in my mouth, pulled down my pants. My cock sprang up hard against my stomach, so swollen it hurt. I needed to finish too. I started jerking off with my right hand, fast, without hiding it, while Mateo watched me without moving. I worked myself up and down, gripping hard at the base, with my other hand holding my balls. He didn’t help me, didn’t touch me, just watched me, his cock still out, still shining with my saliva. And that was enough. I felt the orgasm rising from my root, a tug from my balls that folded me over in the seat. I came too, in spurts, over my own hand, over my stomach, over the black T-shirt, with his taste still on my tongue and a muffled groan escaping me from somewhere deep inside. Four, five pulses, each one a lash of pleasure that sent my legs jerking against the upholstery.

Then we sat in silence. He got dressed. I cleaned myself up with a handful of napkins he pulled from the glove compartment, trying not to leave any semen behind on the seat. Neither of us really knew what to say.

—You okay? —he asked at last.

—Yeah —I said, and it was true—. I’m better than okay.

He smiled. He shook my hand, formal, as if we were saying goodbye after a business deal. I got out of the car and crossed over to mine. Before I got in, I turned around. He rolled down his window.

—Again sometime? —I asked.

—Some day.

He drove off first. I watched him disappear down the empty street, the taillights shrinking until they vanished around the corner. Then I started my car and drove home with the window down, letting the cold air come into my mouth. We haven’t seen each other again since that night, but the desire is still there, waiting for another message at eleven.