The Old Man in the Park Took Me Down a Dark Path

That night I couldn’t find anyone. I’d written to two contacts and neither answered; the profiles on the app stayed still, not a single movement, and the March heat inside my room only made things worse. I’d spent the whole afternoon with my cock hard, that stubborn hardness that won’t go away no matter what and hurts if you don’t unload.

I went out into the street after eleven. I walked aimlessly for a few blocks and my feet decided for me. I knew the route well: to the Prado Park, that rectangle of old trees that cuts through the center of the city and changes owners at night. By day, retirees and mothers with strollers cross it. At night, other people.

The park was quieter than usual. The streetlamps alternated between on and off, leaving whole stretches in darkness. I went along the outer paths, then the inner ones, then the area around the closed bathrooms. Nothing. Some guy asleep on a bench. A skinny dog. The bluish light of a phone behind some bushes that went out the moment I walked close.

One more lap and I’m going home, I told myself.

Then I saw him. He was coming down the main path, unhurried, with his hands clasped behind his back. A man of about sixty, his shirt untucked and light-colored pants that were visible even in that gloom. He walked slowly, looking between the trees. I recognized him instantly: I’d made that same walk dozens of times.

I moved ahead to the nearest tree and, with little attempt at concealment, pulled out my cock. I pretended to be pissing against the trunk. I was already almost hard; it was hard to hide. The old man reached my level and stopped three steps away, watching. He said nothing. I said nothing either. I held out for those endless seconds, jerking it with my left hand as if I were still pissing.

He looked at the path he’d come from. He looked to the sides. He fixed his eyes again on my hand. I held his gaze, waiting for him to make a move. But he didn’t decide. After a long while, he let out a short sigh and kept walking.

I put my cock away, gave myself a couple of seconds, and started walking after him, about fifteen meters behind. If he didn’t want it there, maybe he’d want it farther on. It was an old game I knew well.

The old man turned around every twenty or thirty steps to make sure I was still behind him. Every time he turned his head, I slowed down so I wouldn’t scare him. We crossed the south exit of the park, then Marítima Avenue — deserted at that hour except for an empty taxi — and headed into Tilos Street. I was already guessing where he was going.

At the end of the street there was a long vacant lot, a strip of dirt and scrub the city council had never finished urbanizing. It had once been part of the old park; now it was a dead zone between two neighborhoods. During the day a runner might pass through. At night, almost nobody.

The old man went onto the dirt path, walked about forty meters, and stopped beside a thick bush that hid the side of the path. He turned and waited for me. This time there was no doubt. I reached him slowly, without saying a word. The moon gave only a faint shine to the leaves. Farther on, in the distance, you could hear the hum of the avenue.

I pulled out my cock again. This time I didn’t pretend. It was hard again, rock hard from the walk and the waiting.

—You’ve got a nice piece —he said softly.

—I’ve been like this all night —I answered.

He stepped closer and grabbed it. His hands were warm, his fingers firm; he knew exactly what he was doing. He started jerking me off with a slow, almost instructional rhythm, while looking into my eyes.

—You’re hot as hell, huh? —he said.

—Very.

—Shows.

He let go of my cock just long enough to unbuckle my belt, open the button, and pull down the zipper. In one motion he dragged my pants and boxer briefs down to my ankles. The cold air hit my legs. He brought his hands to my chest, slid them under my T-shirt, and pinched my nipples with two fingers; not hard, but enough to catch my breath.

—You’re hot as a bitch —he muttered.

He leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t a careful kiss. He shoved his tongue all the way in with a deliberate movement. He smelled of tobacco and an old cologne, too sweet. I let him do it. I needed it.

Without pulling away much, he went down my neck, my collarbone, my stomach, until he knelt. He was sixty years old and knelt as if he were twenty. He grabbed my balls with his left hand and took my cock into his mouth without probing. He swallowed as much as he could and started sucking me hard, nonstop, setting the pace himself.

—You like it, don’t you? —he said between sucks.

—Yeah —I answered, almost voiceless.

He let go of my balls and took my left hand behind me. With one finger he went looking for my hole. When he found it, he pressed slowly and, without warning, pushed in to the first knuckle. I arched. A long breath escaped me.

—You like it, you like it —he repeated, now with a smile in his voice—. You’re hot, faggot, you’re very hot.

***

He straightened up and unbuttoned his pants. He pulled out his cock through the fly. It wasn’t huge, but it was rock hard, almost purple in that bad light. He brought my head toward it with a hand on my neck.

—Open up —he said—. Suck it good.

I opened my mouth and took it in. It had a strong taste, salty, old. I sucked him slowly: first the tip, then deeper, letting him set the rhythm with his hand on my neck. With my other hand I reached through the opening in his pants for his balls, pulled them out, and stroked them while I kept sucking.

That was when we heard footsteps.

They were coming along the dirt path, slow. I lifted my eyes slightly without taking the cock out of my mouth. The old man squeezed the hand on my neck so I wouldn’t move. Through the leaves I saw a boy no older than twenty-five, with a backpack over one shoulder and an open shirt over a black T-shirt. He was coming back from work, I thought. He’d taken the shortcut across the vacant lot and had stumbled onto us by accident.

He stopped about five meters away, watching. He didn’t run off. He didn’t move closer. He just watched.

—He’s been following me since the park —the old man told him, as if introducing me—. He’s real horny. Look how he won’t let go of my cock.

The boy took two steps. He came up to the edge of the bush, where I could see him well out of the corner of my eye. His eyebrows were raised, not from fear but from surprise. He was starting to breathe harder.

—If you want, give it to him in the ass —said the old man—. Look at the hole he’s got. You touch him and he opens up. Go on, fuck the faggot.

The boy took another step closer. He laid a hand on my side, then on my ass cheek, then slid it toward the middle. He didn’t have a rookie’s hand. He knew where to touch. He squeezed my ass cheeks, spread them a little with his thumbs, and then let go.

—He’s all set —he murmured.

—Take him —said the old man—. I’ll keep him busy up top.

I heard the sound of the belt, then the zipper. The boy pulled his pants down to his thighs, just enough. He spat into his hand twice, ran it over his cock, and came to my ass. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him. He set the head at the entrance and pushed, slowly at first.

Then not so slowly.

When he buried it all the way in, the old man took advantage of the jolt and shoved his cock all the way to the back of my throat. I choked. I coughed with it in my mouth. Tears came up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks.

—Fuck, you nearly ripped his balls off with that thrust —the old man laughed—. You took it right past the uvula.

The boy grabbed my waist with both hands. He started moving, first with measured thrusts, then faster and faster. I had the old man’s cock in my mouth, still choking, and the boy’s working its way in step by step. My ears were ringing.

—He’s got a hot ass —the boy said, almost to himself—. Hot and tight.

—He’s well hung, look at that —the old man shot back.

The boy slid one hand under my belly and grabbed my cock. It was rock hard, wet at the tip. He jerked me a little while he kept fucking me. I let out a moan against the old man’s cock, and he squeezed my neck harder.

—Still —the old man said—. Swallow.

Slap, slap. The boy’s pelvis against my ass. The dry, hard tapping. The old man fucking my mouth at a different pace, more capricious, more erratic. I was nothing in that moment. I was a hole on top and a hole on the bottom. And I had never been so calm.

***

The old man came first. I knew because he stopped talking. He started breathing with his mouth open in short jolts, and suddenly he shoved his cock in as deep as he could and held it there. I felt it throb against my palate. He filled my mouth in one go. He didn’t let me pull it out. He squeezed my neck and forced me to swallow everything while he said things I could barely understand.

—Swallow, faggot, swallow. All of it. All of it.

I swallowed. I had no other choice and, besides, I didn’t want one.

When he finally pulled his cock out, the boy was still fucking me. Now slower, with deep, almost gliding thrusts. His pelvis stuck to my ass for a few seconds each time. He was close; I could tell from his breathing.

—Aaah —he moaned—. Aaah, there.

He held my hips with both hands, buried himself to the hilt, and started trembling. I felt the release inside me in pulses. He didn’t stop moving for a couple more seconds, slowly, as if squeezing himself out. Then he went still, his forehead pressed against my back, breathing hard.

—Now you —he said softly, and started jerking me off underneath.

I didn’t take long. I’d been like that all night, and between the cock inside and the boy’s hand outside, everything finally let go. I let out a long moan and came in one dense burst that was lost in the dirt of the path. The boy kept moving his hand until he got the last drop out of me.

—Look how the faggot moans —the old man laughed, looking down at me—. Look at the load he shot. Seems he likes it.

He laughed a little more. The boy pulled his cock out slowly, without jerking. I felt the cold air rush in all at once where, a few seconds before, there had been everything. I sat up, my legs warm, my pants still around my ankles.

None of us spoke for a minute. The boy got dressed first. Then the old man. I wiped myself as best I could with a handkerchief from my pocket and pulled my pants up. It took effort to fasten my belt: my hands were still shaking.

—Take care —the old man said, patting my shoulder.

—You too —I replied.

They left together along the path, heading toward Cerro neighborhood. I watched them go until the darkness of the brush swallowed them up. Then I turned and walked the other way, toward the park, toward the avenue, toward home.

I got there after three. The kitchen was dark. I poured myself a glass of water and drank it in one gulp. I leaned against the counter for a long while, with the extractor hood light on, that yellow light that had always seemed ugly to me and that night, for some reason, seemed welcoming.

At last I felt relieved. My ass open, my cock rested, my stomach full of someone else’s cum. And in the morning, when I woke up, it would be the same all over again. But that would be tomorrow’s problem.