I Went Back to Find Him Even Though I Knew I Shouldn't

My name is Valeria, though on the street they know me as Val. I’m twenty-four now, but this happened two years ago, when I had just turned twenty-two and still thought I was invincible.

I’m trans, I live in a provincial city in the interior of the country, one of those places that’s neither small nor huge, where everyone knows everyone but nobody says anything out loud. I’ve got a good body, and I’m not ashamed to say it: a defined waist, generous hips, and the kind of walk that makes people turn even if they don’t quite know why.

The first time with him had been a few weeks earlier. A man in his forties who slept under the bridge of a central avenue, in an area decent neighbors avoid after eleven but that I know like my own kitchen. We’d run into each other by chance when I was coming home from work, and what started as a conversation ended in something neither of us expected. We didn’t finish that first night. He was left with a hard cock and no release, and I was left with a wet pussy and the desire for him to fuck me all the way, and that kept turning over in my head more than I wanted to admit.

That night I went out without a clear plan. I put on a tight black skirt, a strappy top, and the platform sandals I wear when I want to be noticed. The idea was to find a client, make some money, and go home спокойно.

Things didn’t turn out that way.

***

I stood on my usual corner for almost two hours. Cars passed, some looked at me, one stopped and asked the price but drove off without closing anything. An older man gave me a bill and asked for nothing in return, which is the most disconcerting thing that can happen to you on that corner. Nothing else.

At one thirty I decided it wasn’t my night and started walking home.

But my feet took another path.

It’s not that I didn’t notice. I noticed perfectly well. I just kept walking toward the bridge, telling myself I was only going to pass by there, that I just wanted to see if he was still sleeping in the same place, that I wasn’t going to do anything weird.

The night was cool, with that particular silence provincial cities have after midnight. Almost empty streets, the occasional dog barking in the distance, the sound of the river coming from two blocks away like a constant murmur.

I saw him from far off. He was in the same place as always, leaning against the concrete wall with a blanket over him. Asleep.

I stood on the other side of the fence looking at him for a moment. From there I couldn’t make out his face well, but I recognized the shoulders, the posture, the way he had his arms crossed over his chest.

I found a wire lying on the ground and used it to try to get his attention, gently touching his fingers through the fence. Nothing. He was in a deep sleep. I tried three times with more insistence and he stayed the same, with no sign that the world existed.

That was when I made the decision that, in retrospect, was completely insane.

***

I went all the way around to the other side of the wall, where there was a lower section I could climb. I took off my sandals so I wouldn’t make noise and shoved them into my bag. The concrete was cold under my bare feet.

I climbed with more clumsiness than grace. I scraped my thigh against the edge, broke a nail, and somehow ended up on the other side without landing on my head, which was already a considerable achievement given the circumstances. My heart was pounding with a force that had nothing to do with physical effort.

I put my sandals back on and moved closer.

Up close he looked calmer than the first time. His hair was a little long, his beard grown out but neat, old clothes but clean. He smelled like cheap soap and something else I couldn’t identify. His resting face looked younger than he had seemed when awake.

I knelt beside him and carefully put my hand on his chest, with that soft pressure that doesn’t startle.

—Hey... —I said very quietly—. Hey.

He woke up suddenly, as if someone had called to him from inside. He looked at me for a second, disoriented, and then something appeared on his face that wasn’t exactly surprise so much as recognition.

—What are you doing here? —he asked. His voice was rough with sleep.

—I was left wanting your cock —I said bluntly—. The other night you left without finishing and I couldn’t get it out of my head.

He looked me up and down, still wearing that expression of someone not sure whether he’s dreaming.

—You’re real —he said, more to himself than to me.

—I’m real. And I want you to fuck me.

He sat up slowly, put a hand on my hip, and pulled me toward him without roughness.

***

We moved to the darkest corner, where the bridge’s shadow covered everything. He sat against the wall and I settled beside him, though I didn’t last long in that position.

He started touching me slowly, with that caution of someone who doesn’t want to scare off something good. His rough hands traveled up my thighs beneath the skirt, stopping where they found the most heat. When he reached the edge of my thong he slipped his fingers under it and squeezed my ass with both hands, and that squeeze pulled a gasp from me I couldn’t hide. He didn’t say anything. He just looked, and touched, and spread my thighs with his palms as if he were measuring how far he could go.

I moved closer little by little until I was on top of him, my knees on either side of his legs. He had his hands on my waist, firm but not squeezing, as if holding something he didn’t want to break. I felt the hard bulge under his pants pressing against my crotch, and I shifted slightly over him to tease him, to let him feel that I was hard for him too.

—What do you want? —he asked me.

—I want you to give me all of it —I said—. Everything you didn’t give me last time.

I unzipped his pants without rushing. He let me do it, leaning back against the concrete with that air of someone who has learned to receive whatever life brings without asking too many questions.

When I took out his cock it was already hard, throbbing in my hand. It wasn’t big, but it had that thick, veiny firmness that says the owner knows what he’s got. I cupped it in my palm and felt the slow, steady pulse, and a drop of precum already beading at the tip. I ran my thumb over it and spread it across the whole glans, looking him in the eyes so he could see how I was looking at him while I did it.

I went down slowly.

I ran my tongue from base to tip, flat and slow, tasting the salt of his skin. Then again on the other side, and again, until it was shining with saliva and he was already breathing through his mouth. I licked his balls with my warm tongue, one first, then the other, while I held his cock against his stomach with my hand. I heard him let out a low groan that escaped his chest without permission.

Only then did I take him into my mouth.

I took him all the way, without gagging, letting him hit the back of my throat before I rose again slowly, lips tight around the flesh and my tongue working underneath. He let out a long breath, a broken, contained sound, and one of his hands appeared on the back of my neck without squeezing, just resting there, as if asking permission to guide me.

I gave it to him. I started sucking him in earnest, with rhythm, bobbing my head while the hand at the base kept time with me. Every three or four strokes I took him out of my mouth to spit on him and take him back in again, wetter, deeper. Saliva ran down my chin to his balls and I spread it with my hand to massage them while I kept sucking.

—Jesus fucking Christ —I heard him whisper—. You suck so well.

That turned me on even more. I looked up at him with his cock deep in my throat, eyes watery, and he tightened his grip on my hair a little more. He started moving my head with greater firmness, setting the rhythm he wanted. I let him use my mouth however he wanted for a good while, swallowing each thrust, feeling the tip strike my throat and force me to breathe through my nose between pushes.

Every so often I’d let him go completely and lick his whole shaft, his balls, even run my tongue over his perineum, and he’d arch his back against the wall when I did that. He always reacted well.

The cold asphalt under my knees, the sound of the river in the background, the darkness like a blanket over both of us. There was nothing comfortable about the scene and yet it was exactly where I wanted to be: kneeling under a bridge with a stranger’s cock down my throat.

Until he said, in a low voice:

—I want to fuck you.

***

I stood up, moved my thong to one side, and settled on top of him facing his chest. I spat on my hand a couple of times and soaked his cock well, then ran my fingers over my ass and used the same saliva to prepare my hole, calmly, because I learned long ago that rushing doesn’t do anyone any good at this point. I put one finger in first, then two, breathing deeply as I relaxed on top of him. He watched me, hands on my hips and cock bumping my thigh, waiting.

I placed the tip against my hole and lowered myself millimeter by millimeter, breathing slowly. I felt the stretch the exact moment the head slipped inside, that familiar burn that later turns into something else. I let the air out through my mouth, trembling just a little.

He waited. I liked that about him from the first time: he knew how to wait without getting nervous, without pushing too soon. He let me come down at my own pace, hands firm on my waist, holding back.

When I had him all the way inside, to the base, I paused for a moment with my ass resting on his thighs, letting my body adjust to the thickness. His hands were on my hips but he didn’t thrust. He just waited, breathing hard against my neck.

I started moving.

First slowly, rising just a few centimeters and lowering again, short motions, adjusting the angle until I found the one that made me close my eyes and bite my lip. When I found it, I stayed there. Then wider, taking the full range, pulling almost all of his cock out and burying it again to the hilt, feeling him tense his thighs beneath me.

—Like that —I panted—. Stay still, I’ll ride you.

I put my hands on his shoulders and started to get myself fucked at my own pace. Up, down, twisting my hips at the end of each descent to feel his cock rubbing inside me from every angle. My own cock was hard against my stomach, trapped under my hiked-up skirt, bouncing with each movement and dripping onto his T-shirt without either of us caring.

We were in the street, under a bridge, on a blanket that smelled like dust and night. There was nothing romantic about the scene and yet I couldn’t think of any other place I wanted to be in that moment. Every time I opened my eyes and looked at the gray concrete above my head, my chest beat harder, and my ass slapped against his thighs with a wet sound that was driving me insane.

He lifted my top and yanked my tits out. He took one into his mouth, bit the nipple, sucked, and I arched over him without stopping my movement. With his other hand he reached down to my cock and started jerking me off to the same rhythm as he was fucking me. I began to let out moans I had to bite back so I wouldn’t make more noise than we already were.

I braced my hands on his shoulders and sped up. He started moving his hips at the same time, thrusting up from below to meet me in the air, and each collision knocked the breath out of my lungs. For a few minutes there was no sound other than our heavy breathing, the slapping of saliva and skin, and the rustle of fabric against skin.

—What a fucking ass you’ve got —he muttered against my breast—. You have no idea how tight it gets around me.

—Fuck me harder —I begged.

When my legs started to give out, he noticed before I said anything.

—Turn around —he said—. Give me your ass.

I settled on hands and knees in front of him, my skirt hiked up to my waist and my ass in the air. I heard him moving behind me, getting onto his knees. I felt his hands spread my cheeks, and then his warm tongue tracing my hole from top to bottom, once, twice, three times. My arms shook. I pushed my ass against his face and he got it and buried himself in me, circling, salivating me well for what was coming.

I felt his heat before I felt his touch. Then the tip of his cock resting there, searching for the entrance.

He went in in one continuous motion, all the way to the base, and I stayed still for a second, taking it, mouth open and breathless.

Then he started moving.

He took my hips in both hands and found a firm, steady rhythm, without pause. It wasn’t violent, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was exactly what I had gone looking for without fully knowing I was going to look for it: cock buried deep, pulled almost all the way out, and back to the bottom again, over and over, with that hard pelvic slap against my ass repeating like a drum. Each thrust made me lean harder on my arms against the ground, close my eyes tighter, and let out muffled moans I tried to hide against my forearm.

—You’re a whore —he told me from behind, without malice, almost admiringly—. You came all the way here to get fucked under a bridge.

—Yeah —I panted—. I’m a whore. Fuck me more.

He grabbed my hair with one hand and pulled my head back, not roughly but firmly, and started driving into me deeper. His other hand went to my cock and started jerking me off at the same rhythm as he shoved it into my ass. Everything blurred. I felt my release rising from my balls and tried to hold back; I didn’t want to come so soon, but he was hitting exactly the right spot inside me and there was no way.

The noise we made —skin slapping, my muffled moans, his grunts, the creak of the blanket —mixed with the sound of the river. I thought that if someone walked by over the bridge, they wouldn’t hear a thing, and somehow that made everything more intense, not less.

How much of a whore can you be, Val.

Quite a lot, apparently.

***

We’d been at it for several minutes when I heard voices.

Not close yet, but not far either. Two people walking across the bridge above, their words muffled by the concrete. I stopped, with his cock still inside me, holding my breath.

—You almost done? —I asked in a very low voice.

He had heard them too. He waited a second before answering, without moving.

—Sort of.

I turned around slowly, his cock sliding out of my ass in the process, and took him back into my mouth just like that, soaked. I started sucking him fast, hard, trying to speed things along. I squeezed his balls with one hand, hollowed my cheeks around him, and took him all the way to my throat every time I came up. My head went up and down between his legs with a slurping sound that was obscene in the silence, and now he was gripping my hair with both hands, pushing me all the way down.

But the voices were getting closer than I liked. Two minutes passed that felt longer than they were. The voices stayed there, stopping, starting again, never quite going away. He was close —I could tell by the way his thighs were tightening, by the pulse of his cock against my tongue—but not close enough.

I decided I had to leave.

—Sorry —I told him, pulling him out of my mouth with a strand of saliva hanging—. There’s people.

He looked at me, taking in the situation, his hard, shiny cock pointing at the bridge ceiling. Then he nodded slowly, with that unresentful resignation he had for everything. He didn’t make a face, didn’t say anything he shouldn’t. He just nodded.

I gathered my things, fixed my clothes over my still-warm body as best I could, and looked for the opening I had come through. On the other side of the wall, once I was back on the street, I heard two women approach and start talking to him. I couldn’t make out the exact words, but I could hear the tone: that disapproval of midnight neighbors who find something they don’t understand and feel compelled to comment on it.

I kept walking without looking back.

I walked the ten blocks home with feet that barely hurt, with my ass throbbing with every step and my mouth still tasting like him, still carrying the heat of everything that had happened on my skin. The streets were completely empty at that hour. My heels clicked on the asphalt and the echo came back from the walls of the buildings.

I was liking the street too much. The risk, the darkness, the absolute lack of practical sense in what I had just done.

I knew it. And I didn’t care very much.