I Went Back to Look for Him Even Though I Knew I Shouldn't

My name is Valeria, though on the street people 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, and I live in a city inland, one of those places that aren't small but aren't enormous either, where everyone knows everyone but nobody says anything out loud. I have a good body, and I'm not ashamed to say it: a defined waist, generous hips, and a way of walking that makes people turn around even if they don't quite know why.

The first time with him had been a few weeks earlier. A man around forty who slept beneath a bridge on a central avenue, in an area decent neighbors avoided after eleven but that I knew like the back of my hand. We'd met by chance when I was coming home from work, and what began as a conversation turned into something neither of us expected. We hadn't finished that first night. He was left with his cock hard and without coming, I was left with my cunt wet and desperate for him to fuck me all the way, and it had been going around in my head for longer than I wanted to admit.

That night I went out without a clear plan. I put on a tight black miniskirt, a spaghetti-strap top, and the platform sandals I wear when I want people to notice me. The idea was to find a client, make some money, and go home in peace.

Things didn't go that way.

***

I stood on the usual corner for almost two hours. Cars went by, some people looked at me, one stopped and asked the price but drove away without closing the deal. An older man gave me a bill without asking for anything in return, which is the most bewildering 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 wasn't that I didn't realize what I was doing. I realized perfectly well. I simply kept walking toward the bridge, telling myself I was only going to pass by, that I only wanted to see whether he was still sleeping in the same place, that I wasn't going to do anything strange.

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

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

I stood on the other side of the fence watching him for a moment. From there I couldn't see his face clearly, but I recognized his shoulders, his posture, the way he had his arms crossed over his chest.

I found a piece of wire lying on the ground and used it to try to get his attention, delicately touching his fingers through the fence. Nothing. He was sleeping deeply. I tried three times, more insistently, and he remained the same, giving 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 any noise and put them in my purse. The concrete was cold beneath my bare feet.

I climbed with more clumsiness than elegance. I scraped my thigh against the edge, broke a fingernail, and somehow ended up on the other side without falling headfirst, which was already quite an achievement under the circumstances. My heart was pounding with a force that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

I put my sandals back on and approached slowly.

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

I knelt beside him and carefully placed my hand on his chest, with that soft pressure that doesn't frighten anyone.

“Hey...” I said in a very low voice. “Hey.”

He woke with a start, as if someone had called him from inside. He looked at me for a second with disoriented eyes, and then something appeared on his face that wasn't exactly surprise but recognition.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me. His voice was hoarse with sleep.

“I couldn't stop thinking about your cock,” I told him bluntly. “You left without finishing the other night, and I couldn't get it out of my head.”

He looked me up and down, still wearing the expression of someone who wasn't sure whether he was dreaming.

“You're real,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“I'm real. And I want you to fuck me.”

He slowly sat up, put a hand on my hip, and drew 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 stay in that position for long.

He began touching me slowly, with the caution of someone who didn't want to scare away something good. His rough hands traveled up my thighs beneath my skirt, stopping wherever they found more heat. When he reached the edge of my thong, he slipped his fingers underneath and grabbed my ass with both hands, and that squeeze drew a moan from me that I couldn't hide. He said nothing. He only watched and touched and spread my thighs with his palms as if measuring how far he could go.

I moved closer little by little until I was straddling him, my knees on either side of his legs. His hands were on my waist, firm but not squeezing, as if he were holding something he didn't want to break. I felt the hard bulge beneath his pants pressing against my crotch, and I moved slightly on top of him to tease him, so he could feel that I was hard for him too.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want you to give me all of it,” I said. “Everything you didn't give me last time.”

I unzipped his pants unhurriedly. He let me, reclining against the concrete with the air of someone who had learned to accept what life brought him without asking too many questions.

When I pulled out his cock, it was already hard, throbbing in my hand. It wasn't big, but it had that thick, veiny firmness that told you its owner knew what he had. I wrapped my palm around it and felt the pulse, slow and steady, and a drop of pre-cum already appearing at the tip. I ran my thumb over it and spread it across the entire head, looking him in the eyes so he could see me watching him while I did it.

I lowered myself slowly.

I ran my tongue from the base to the tip, flat and slow, tasting the salt of his skin. Then again along 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 holding his cock against his belly with my hand. I heard him let out a low growl that came from his chest without permission.

Only then did I put it in my mouth.

I took it whole, without gagging, letting it reach the back of my throat before slowly coming back up, my lips tight around the flesh and my tongue working underneath. He exhaled at length, a broken, restrained sound, and one of his hands appeared at the back of my neck without squeezing, merely resting there, as if asking permission to guide me.

I gave it to him. I started sucking him seriously, rhythmically, moving my head up and down while the hand at the base kept the same pace. Every three or four strokes I pulled it from my mouth to spit on it and put it all back in, slicker and deeper. Saliva ran down my chin to his balls, and I spread it with my hand to massage them while I kept sucking.

“Goddamn,” I heard him whisper. “You suck so good.”

That turned me on even more. I looked up at him from below with his cock all the way down my throat, my eyes watering, and he gripped my hair a little tighter. He began moving my head more firmly, setting the rhythm he wanted. I let him use my mouth however he wanted for quite a while, swallowing every thrust, feeling the tip strike my throat and force me to breathe through my nose between each one.

Every so often I let go of it completely and licked his entire shaft, his balls, even running my tongue over his perineum, and he arched his back against the wall whenever I did that. He always reacted well.

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

Until he said, in a low voice:

“I want to fuck you.”

***

I stood up, shifted my thong to one side, and settled on top of him facing his chest. I spat into my hand a couple of times and thoroughly drenched his cock, then ran my fingers over my ass and used the same saliva to prepare the entrance, calmly, because I'd learned long ago that rushing does nobody 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 do it, his hands on my hips and his cock knocking against my thigh, waiting.

I pressed the tip against my hole and lowered myself millimeter by millimeter, breathing slowly. I felt the stretch at the exact moment the head slipped inside, that familiar burn that later turns into something else. I let the air out through my mouth and trembled slightly.

He waited. That was what I had liked about him since the first time: he knew how to wait without getting nervous, without pushing too soon. He let me lower myself at my own pace, his hands firm on my waist, holding back his desire.

When I had taken all of him, right to the base, I stopped 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 push. He only waited, breathing heavily against my neck.

I started moving.

At first slowly, rising only a few inches and lowering again with short movements, 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 I made the movement wider, taking the entire length, pulling almost all of his cock out and burying it again to the hilt, feeling his thighs tense beneath me.

“Like that,” I gasped. “Stay still and let me ride you.”

I put my hands on his shoulders and began fucking myself on him at my own pace. Up, down, rolling my hips at the end of each descent to feel his cock rubbing me inside at every angle. My own cock was hard against his belly, trapped beneath my hiked-up skirt, bouncing with every movement and dripping onto his shirt without either of us caring.

We were in the street, beneath a bridge, on a blanket that smelled of dust and night. There was nothing romantic about the scene, and yet I couldn't think of anywhere else I wanted to be at that moment. Every time I opened my eyes and looked at the gray concrete above my head, my heart pounded harder, and my ass slapped against his thighs with a wet sound that was driving me crazy.

He pulled up my top and yanked my tits free. He took one into his mouth, bit the nipple, sucked, and I arched over him without stopping my movements. He lowered his other hand to my cock and began jerking me off at the same rhythm I was riding him. I started letting out moans that I had to bite back so I wouldn't make even more noise than we already were.

I braced my hands on his shoulders and quickened the pace. He began moving his hips at the same time, thrusting up from below to meet me in the air, and every collision knocked the breath from my lungs. For several minutes there was no sound other than our heavy breathing, the sloshing of saliva and skin, and fabric rubbing against flesh.

“What an ass you've got, goddamn,” he murmured against my tit. “You have no idea how tight you are around me.”

“Fuck me harder,” I asked him.

When my legs began to weaken, he noticed before I said anything.

“Turn around,” he said. “Give me your ass.”

I got onto my hands and knees in front of him, my skirt bunched up to my waist and my ass sticking up. I heard him moving behind me, getting down on his knees. I felt his hands spread my buttocks, and then his warm tongue traveled over my hole from top to bottom, once, twice, three times. My arms trembled. I pushed my ass against his face, and he understood, then drove it inside, twisting and covering me thoroughly with saliva for what was coming.

I felt his heat before I felt him touch me. Then the tip of his cock pressed against me, searching for the entrance.

He entered in one continuous movement, all the way to the base, and I stayed still for a second, taking him, mouth open and breathless.

Then he began to move.

He took my hips in both hands and found a firm, steady rhythm without pausing. It wasn't violent, but it wasn't gentle either. It was exactly what I had gone looking for without fully knowing I was looking for it: his cock all the way in, almost completely out, and then back to the bottom, again and again, with the dry smack of his pelvis against my ass repeating like a drumbeat. Every thrust made me brace my arms more firmly against the ground, squeeze my eyes tighter shut, and let out muffled moans that I tried to hide against my arm.

“You're such a slut,” he told me from behind, without malice, almost with admiration. “You came all the way here to get fucked under a bridge.”

“Yes,” I gasped. “I'm a slut. Fuck me harder.”

He grabbed my hair with one hand and pulled my head back, not roughly but firmly, and started driving into me deeper. He brought his other hand to my cock and began jerking me off at the same rhythm he was fucking my ass. Everything went blurry. I felt my orgasm rising from my balls and tried to hold it back—I didn't want to come so soon—but he was hitting exactly the right spot inside me, and there was no way I could.

The noise we made—the slap of skin, my muffled moans, his grunts, the crunch of the blanket—mingled with the sound of the river. I thought that if someone walked across the bridge they wouldn't hear anything, and somehow that made everything more intense, not less.

How much of a slut can you be, Val?

Quite a lot, apparently.

***

We had been like that for several minutes when I heard voices.

They weren't close yet, but they weren't far away either. Two people were walking across the bridge above us, their words muffled by the concrete. I stopped, his cock still inside me, holding my breath.

“Are you almost done?” I asked him in a very low voice.

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

“Almost.”

I slowly turned around, his cock sliding out of my ass in the process, and put it back in my mouth just as it was, still wet. I started sucking him quickly and eagerly, trying to hurry things along. I squeezed his balls with one hand, drew suction with my cheeks, and took him down to my throat every time I came back up. My head moved up and down between his legs with a sloshing sound that seemed obscene in the silence, and now he gripped my hair with both hands, pushing me all the way down.

But the voices were getting closer than I liked. Two minutes passed, feeling longer than they actually were. The voices remained there, stopping and starting again, never quite moving far enough away. He was close—I could tell by the way his thighs tensed, by the pulse of his cock against my tongue—but not close enough.

I decided I had to leave.

“Sorry,” I told him, pulling it from my mouth with a strand of saliva hanging from it. “There are people.”

He looked at me, assessing the situation, his cock hard and shining as it pointed toward the bridge ceiling. Then he nodded slowly, with that resigned, unresentful acceptance he seemed to have toward everything. He didn't make a face or say anything he shouldn't. He simply nodded.

I gathered my things, arranged my clothes as best I could over my still-hot body, and looked for the gap I'd come through. On the other side of the wall, once I was back in the street, I heard two women approaching and beginning to talk to him. I couldn't make out the exact words, but I could hear the tone: the disapproval of midnight neighbors who find something they don't understand and feel obligated to comment on it.

I kept walking without looking back.

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

I was liking this street life far 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.