The Night I Went Back to Find Him Under the Bridge

My name is Valentina, though I chose that name myself when I was nineteen and decided the one they’d given me didn’t represent me. What I’m about to tell happened when I was twenty-two. I live in a coastal city inland, one of those places with a long riverside promenade and an old district that at night turns into something different from what it looks like by day. I’m a trans woman, and back then I worked the street to pay the rent and have some independence.

The week before, I’d had an encounter I couldn’t get out of my head. A man of about forty, homeless, who slept under the pedestrian bridge on the main avenue. He lived out in the open but had something calm in his gaze, the kind of man who no longer has anything to prove. The first time, we’d been together for a while: I’d pulled his cock out of his pants, sucked him for barely five minutes, my tongue running over his glans and balls, feeling him get hard as a rock in my mouth, but something interrupted us before we could get to the end. I was left with his taste in my mouth and my panties soaked for days. It wasn’t the kind of debt one just lets go.

It was Saturday night and I stayed alone in my apartment from early on. I tried to keep myself occupied: made something to eat, put something on my phone, stared out the window for a long while. Nothing worked. I shoved two fingers up my ass under the shower thinking about him, but finishing alone wasn’t enough. By eleven I realized I was already getting dressed without consciously deciding to. I looked for my tightest skirt, a thin sand-colored blouse, the black heels that do me good even though after two hours I’m cursing them. Underneath, a tiny thong that left my ass almost bare. I put perfume on my neck, my wrists, and between my tits, grabbed my purse, and went out.

I spent almost two hours at my usual corner. The night was dead: a couple of slow cars that passed without stopping, two who asked the price and left, someone I knew who greeted me from afar. I sucked some guy’s cock fast inside a Corsa, swallowed the little he shot, and rinsed my mouth with mineral water, but nothing else worth mentioning. My mind was somewhere else and my body wasn’t really present on that corner either. It was one of those nights when you’re standing in one place but thinking of another.

When I decided to go home, my feet took the opposite direction. It didn’t surprise me much. I walked through the half-empty streets for a quarter of an hour, crossing lit avenues and sidewalks with no one on them, until I reached the riverside promenade. Autumn had emptied the place: the benches were deserted, the trees rustled in the wind, the river sounded like a constant background noise. I went down the stairs toward the underpass beneath the bridge and there it all was, the same as the week before: a rusted streetlamp giving off little light, a dry corner sheltered from the wind by the concrete pillars, cardboard stacked against the wall.

And there he was, on his back, arms crossed over his chest, asleep as if the world didn’t exist.

I stood there on the other side of the iron fence for a moment. My heart was beating hard, in that way that isn’t exactly fear but is close enough. I told myself that if he gave no sign in two minutes, I’d leave. It was a comfortable lie, but I believed it long enough to stay there, looking at him. Even asleep, his bulge was outlined in his pants, and that image made me squeeze my thighs together.

I found a piece of wire near my feet and used it to reach his hand from the other side of the fence. I brushed his fingers once. Nothing. Twice, harder. Nothing. Three times. The man slept as if there were nothing more urgent in the world than that sleep. I waited a little longer and then made the decision I’d already known I was going to make since I’d left my apartment: I went around the fence to the wall on the other side, where I remembered there was a gap to get through, and climbed up.

I came down with more clumsiness than I would’ve liked. I scraped my hip on the rough cement and landed on the ground with a dull thud. I straightened my skirt and moved slowly toward him, stepping between the cardboard so I wouldn’t make noise. The only light was the one falling from the streetlamp, oblique and orange. The only sound was the river and, every so often, a car passing above on the bridge.

I knelt beside him and laid a hand gently on his chest.

—Hey —I said, almost under my breath—. Hey.

He woke with a start, looking around before focusing on me. I saw the shock on his face, that fraction of a second of not knowing where he was or who I was. Then I saw him recognize me, and his expression changed.

—Well, look who’s here —he said, smiling.

—I was left wanting what we didn’t finish —I told him flat out.

—And you came here at two in the morning to look for it.

—I came so you’d fuck me —I said, looking him in the eye—. That’s why I came.

He propped himself up on his elbows, unhurried. He looked at me with that same expression as the first time: no judgment, no questions that weren’t necessary. Just curiosity and something more concrete already beginning to swell in his pants.

—You’re such a slut —he murmured, and said it with affection, like praise.

—I’m your slut tonight —I answered.

I moved closer and he took me by the waist. His hands were rough from living outside, but he moved them carefully. He traced my back, slid down to my hips, squeezed my ass with both hands, parting my cheeks over the skirt. He pulled me toward him until I was sitting on his lap, facing him, feeling his hard cock pressing into me between my legs through the fabric. He had dark eyes and a thin scar on his chin I hadn’t noticed the first time.

—What a nice ass you’ve got —he said, squeezing hard—. All week I was thinking about this ass.

I kissed his neck, his jaw, his mouth. He returned the kiss with tongue, tasting me without haste. I felt the muscles tense beneath my lips. He slid his hands under my skirt and ripped off my thong with one sharp tug. He tucked it into his pants pocket without saying anything, with a sideways smile. He shoved a thick finger into my ass, dry, making me bounce on his lap.

—You’re already open, slut —he said, moving his finger inside—. You came here with a clear idea.

—I stuck my fingers in myself thinking about you before I came —I confessed in his ear.

I told him to stay still and he obeyed without protest. I got off his lap, settled between his legs, unbuckled his belt calmly, and pulled his pants down to his ankles. His cock sprang up hard, thick, the tip already wet with pre-cum. It was bigger than I remembered: thick at the base, a vein running clearly underneath, the balls heavy and wrinkled from the cold.

I took his cock in my hand and squeezed it so I could see it swell more. I ran my tongue from his balls to the tip, very slowly, tasting the salty skin. I sucked one ball whole, then the other, while with my hand I gave him a slow handjob that brought out more pre-cum. He let his head fall back and groaned softly.

—Jesus fucking Christ —he whispered—. What a tongue you’ve got.

I took him into my mouth without any preamble. All of it, down my throat, until my nose touched the black hairs of his pubic mound. I stayed there for a second, feeling him swell inside my throat, feeling one eye start to water from the lack of air. Then I started going up and down, coating his whole cock in saliva, letting the drool run down my chin and drip onto his balls.

What attracted me most about that man was his physical honesty. He didn’t exaggerate anything, didn’t say movie lines or act for the situation. He breathed harder, shifted a little, closed his eyes. When something especially pleased him, he’d grip my head with one hand, gentle but leaving no room for confusion, and push me deeper until I started gagging. When I began to choke, he’d let me go and let me breathe before plunging me back down.

I kept a steady pace, changing speed when I noticed his balls swelling too much. I jammed his cock all the way to the back and kept it in my throat, sticking my tongue out to lick his balls at the same time. He let out a guttural moan and yanked my hair.

—Stop, stop —he panted—, I’m gonna come in your mouth and I still want to fuck you.

I pulled his cock out with a wet sound and smiled up at him, lips red and swollen, a thread of spit hanging from my chin. He took me by the face and ran the head of his cock over my lips, my cheeks, rubbing his cock against me like he was marking me.

—What a mouth you’ve got —he said in a hoarse, low voice—. You’re a fucking bitch.

He teased me without forcing anything, guiding me more than directing me. I gave him one last long suck, going slowly from the base to the tip, and climbed on him before he could come.

I straddled him. Without the thong there was nothing left to move aside. I took his cock in one hand, positioned it against my ass, and lowered myself slowly, letting my body adjust without haste. The head entered with effort, stretching me, tearing a muffled moan from me. I went down little by little, feeling every centimeter open me up inside, feeling the cock make its way through my walls until I felt his balls against my cheeks. He waited with a patience not common in the men I found on the street. When I was finally fully impaled on him, the two of us stayed still for a second, breathing. All you could hear was the river and the wind among the pillars.

—Come on, move, slut —he murmured, giving me a sharp slap on the ass that echoed under the bridge.

I started moving slowly, up and down, with my hands on his chest for balance. The cardboard crinkled faintly with every movement. I felt every vein of his cock dragging inside me. A car passed overhead and its headlights swept across the space for a second, lighting everything up before darkness returned. I kept going, riding him harder each time, letting my ass fall against his thighs with a wet smack.

He yanked open my blouse, popped two buttons, and pulled one tit out of my bra. He latched onto the nipple like a desperate baby, sucking, biting with the side of his teeth. He made me scream. I covered my mouth with my palm to quiet myself and kept riding him.

I was fucking at two in the morning beneath a bridge with a man who had nothing, his cock buried to the balls in my ass, in a place where nobody would come looking for us. And that was exactly what I wanted.

I picked up more rhythm. He held my hips and adjusted the pressure whenever he wanted more speed, dug his fingers into my flesh, lifted me and let me drop onto his cock hard. My hips found the motion on their own, without me having to think about it. I grabbed one of his hands and brought it to my own cock, already hard and leaking between us. He started jerking me off in time with the way I was fucking him, squeezing hard, pulling my foreskin back.

We kept at it for several minutes, both of us beginning to sweat despite the cold of the early morning, one body answering the other without any bargaining. My cock slid out and in with a splashing sound, smeared with the saliva I’d left on it before.

When my legs started to show signs of fatigue, he noticed before I did.

—Turn around, on all fours —he said—. I’m gonna fuck you the way you ought to be fucked.

I got on all fours over the cardboard. I lifted my ass back, arching my spine, offering it to him. I hiked my skirt up over my hips so he’d have a full view. I waited, my head resting against the cold cement. I felt him spread my cheeks apart with both hands and look at me.

—Look at how open you are —he said—. Look at how you’re begging me to put it in.

He spit on my ass. I watched the saliva drip from there. Then he adjusted his position, set the tip against me, and entered with one steady thrust, all the way in, in a single stroke. The sound I made was involuntary, half moan, half cry. I bit my forearm so I wouldn’t make more noise than necessary.

He fucked me at a steady pace, neither fast nor slow, giving it to me to the balls every time. With every movement I felt the cold cement under my palms and the heat of his body against my back. He grabbed my hair, wound it around his hand, and pulled my head back without pulling out.

—Say you’re my slut —he demanded, moving inside me.

—I’m your slut —I panted.

—Louder.

—I’m your slut! Fuck me! Tear my ass up!

He increased the pace. My ass slapped against his pelvis with a dry sound that bounced off the pillars. He shoved his thumb into my mouth and I sucked it while he kept fucking me. I felt his cock going so deep it hit something inside me that made me see lights. With his free hand he grabbed my cock and gave me a fast handjob in time with his thrusts.

Our breathing mixed with the sound of the river. We stayed like that another five minutes, until I started feeling the orgasm rising through my balls. He pulled his thumb out of my mouth and squeezed my jaw.

—You gonna come?

—Yes —I said—, yes.

He slammed into me three more times, hard, and I came in his hand and on the cardboard, my cock throbbing, clenching my ass around his, milking him from the inside. I bit his forearm so I wouldn’t scream.

He stayed inside me for a moment, moving slowly while I shook. Then he asked me, with a tight voice:

—You close too?

—A little, yeah —I admitted, as he pulled out of me carefully—. You squeezed me wrong, I got carried away.

I offered to finish him off another way. He accepted and lay back down. I settled between his legs, took his cock wet with me in my hand, and started with my mouth again, this time with more rhythm and more intent, keeping a fast, steady cadence. I stroked his balls with my other hand, tugging them gently downward, feeling their weight. I sucked his cock all the way, down my throat, with the force of knowing I had to make him finish now. I licked the vein underneath, ran my tongue over the tip, swallowed it whole again.

I was focused when I heard footsteps above the bridge. I stopped for a moment and looked up, with his cock still in my mouth. Up there were two people walking slowly, with the gait of people coming home after a long night. They stopped right above us, leaning on the parapet. I could hear their voices without making out the words.

The man made a gesture with his hand for me to wait. The two of us stayed completely still. I kept the tip in my mouth without moving, feeling him throb against my tongue. The voices above went on. I took advantage of the silence to fix my blouse and look toward the bridge, trying to figure out whether they’d seen us or not. The angle from above didn’t reach the corner where we were, but I couldn’t be sure.

Another minute passed and I decided that was enough for tonight. I gave him three more quick sucks and gave him a hard handjob with my hand full of my own saliva.

—Come now —I whispered—. Come on my face, go ahead.

He drove into me two more times and then pulled out, took himself in hand, and shook his cock over me. He came in my mouth, on my chin, on my neck, on the tit I still had out. The cum fell thick and hot in several spurts. I swallowed what had landed on my tongue and ran a finger along my chin to suck that too.

—I’ve got to go —I told him in a low voice, my voice rough.

He snorted, still breathing hard. It wasn’t anger, more the resignation of someone already used to things getting interrupted.

—What a shame —he said—. I would’ve stayed all night fucking you.

—Next time we’ll finish the way you want —I promised him, though I didn’t know whether it was true.

I got up, fixed my skirt, wiped my face with a handkerchief from my purse. I asked for my thong; he remembered and handed it back from his pocket, but then he tucked it away again laughing. I left it to him as a trophy. I went back out through the gap in the wall, climbing with more care than on the way down, feeling something dripping between my legs inside my skirt. When I got back up to the promenade, the two people were still nearby: a middle-aged woman and who seemed to be her husband. They caught sight of me out of the corner of their eyes. I kept walking with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen as if I were coming from anywhere else.

—Look at what people do... —I heard one of them say.

I didn’t turn my head. I took the first corner and kept walking without hurrying.

I got home after four in the morning with my heels full of dirt, my blouse wrinkled, two buttons missing, and my ass still throbbing. I took everything off at the door, left my heels by it, and got under the shower. The hot water hit me and I stood there for several minutes with my eyes closed. I watched the cum wash out of my ass, run down the backs of my thighs, and disappear down the drain. I put two fingers inside to clean myself out and was surprised to find myself moaning under the shower, still sensitive.

I’d gone out that night without really knowing what I was looking for. It wasn’t work, it wasn’t affection, it wasn’t company. It was that specific feeling of acting according to my own desire without negotiating it, without asking anyone’s permission, without having to justify it to myself. Of going toward something simply because you wanted to go. Of going out into the street at two in the morning to look for a specific cock because you felt like it, and coming back with it branded inside you.

Under the hot stream, with the sound of the river still in my ears and his taste still in my mouth, I realized it had been worth going out.

I don’t know how many times I went back after that. But I can’t say I didn’t.