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Married Men, Part II: Push, Push, In the Bush

Two days after my romp with the Josh Hopkins look-alike, I return to the same parking lot. This time my ass is clean as whistle and I am ready to roll. The air is a bit cooler than on my last visit, but that doesn’t keep me from hoping my prince will cum. I’m changing clothes in the front seat of my car – out of dress shirt and tie and into jogging pants, a t-shirt and this time, a nice Eddie Bauer thermal, long-sleeve shirt. It’s too cold to show off the guns, today. Still, I skip the underwear. Easy access makes for quick turnaround.

My heart sinks when my eyes light upon a familiar figure. I call him The Beave – because, not only does he remind me a bit of Jerry Mathers (taller, though), he also reminds of an actual beaver (he doesn’t have buck teeth, it has more to do with his posture). I fooled around with him once about two years ago. He couldn’t get it up and then when I let him suck me off, his technique was so bad, I finally, out of frustration, whipped my dick out of his mouth, jerked myself off (shooting all over his glasses and face) and then stormed off. Since then, he has taken the hint that I am not interested, but that has not stopped him from setting up camp at one of my favorite parking lots. And by setting up camp, I mean, once he arrives, he will not leave. If you or anyone else gets out of their vehicle to take a stroll he will shadow you and eventually hit on you. Rebuffing him is easy, but it’s also just sad. His whole affect is that of a puppy that is used to being beaten. What I don’t understand is why he is so determined to do something at which he is so obviously incompetent? It’s maddening, really.

So I temper my excitement and resolve to remain in my vehicle for the duration. Several men drive in, park and go for a walk. Because they’re not of interest to me, I stay put, but not The Beave. He pursues each one of them, to the point where the guys give up, return to their vehicles and take off. I watch as this same scenario is acted out three different times.

Suddenly a mini-van pulls in right next to me and comes to a lurching stop. The driver seems to be in a hurry, so I am assuming that he’s pulling over in order to answer his cell phone, get directions, or something. He’s in his early thirties, with a slight, fawn-colored beard and a nice face (from what I can see). I keep watching him just in case he glances my way. He doesn’t. There’s a deep scowl on his face, so I’m pretty sure he’s not here for fun. He glances to his right, the side of the parking lot the Beave is stationed at, turns back to look at his steering wheel, barks something harsh, but inaudible, and then puts his vehicle in reverse, making a fast, dramatic exit. I laugh. I totally understand people’s frustrations behind the wheel. I can only imagine what others have witnessed of me during one of my “I’m lost and I hate you God” episodes. Not a pretty sight, I’m sure. And while part of me is thinking his hasty exit might be in response to the presence of The Beave, I’m pretty sure it was simply a case of a guy having a bad day.

A few more dudes, all of them regulars, pull into the parking lot and then pull out just as quickly. I don’t know if it’s the sight of The Beave’s vehicle or mine that causes them to flee. I’m just starting to lose all hope that The Beave will never leave and that I will have to make a hasty retreat to another parking lot when in plows Mr. Mini-Van. His vehicle is still in full, forward lurch, when he gets out and slams the door. Without so much as a look in my direction, he makes his way up the hill and down one of the most popular cruising trails. As he passes my car, I take note of his hooded sweatshirt, which has a rather odd name inscribed on the back. I won’t share with you what it said because it’s much too distinctive, but it gave me the impression that either his wife hates him or he’s been doing a bit of children’s theatre.

In any event, I like what I see and decide that it’s now or never. I gather up my stuff; lube, condoms, poppers, cock ring, bottle of water, etc. and am just about to follow when, much to my disappointment, I look up to see The Beave walking in front of my car, off in pursuit of Mr. Mini-Van. I freeze. I don’t want to compete with The Beave or be anywhere in his vicinity if I can help it. Railing against the injustice of it all, I sit in my car and stew for about ten minutes. Part of me is waiting to see if Mr. Mini-Van, after dodging The Beave for awhile, will return to his vehicle. But that’s not the case. I then begin to assume that Mr. Mini-Van is letting The Beave have a go at his dick. The very perverse part of me decides that this is something I have to see with my own eyes and the other part of me, the pragmatic side, hopes that the sight of me might entice Mr. Mini-Van away from The Beave. I hate to poach another dude’s trick, but I will not tolerate ineptness – not when there’s another, more qualified cocksucker readily at hand.

Aware that a significant amount of time (in terms of outdoor trysts) has passed, I make a mad dash to the back part of the woods where the two of them are most likely coupling. As I approach, I see Mr. Mini Van making haste, fleeing from The Beave who stands, shoulders drooping, blending into the background. I come to an abrupt halt just to see if, as Mr. Mini-Van passes me, he will finally take note of me. Oddly enough, Mr. Mini-Van comes to a halt at the exact same time I do. I’m not wearing my glasses and he is just far enough away that, in the fading light of late afternoon, I’m unable to read his face. He turns about and storms down a different path, away from The Beave and myself. Thinking, maybe Mr. Mini-Van isn’t here for fun and games, but just to burn off some steam, I slowly walk forward, toward the mouth of the path that Mr. Mini-Van just disappeared down. Once again, I come to a sudden halt, for there, just a few feet down that path is Mr. Mini-Van. He’s standing in profile, not looking at me. His hands are in the pockets of his chinos and he is looking down at the ground. Not sure if I should approach or keep walking, I stand very still and wait to see what happens next.

The Beave can see me, but not Mr. Mini-Van, and I could care less, as all of my attention is centered on Mr. Mini-Van. Mr. Mini-Van has dark-blonde hair and a nicely trimmed full beard which actually serves to highlight his best feature, his chin. He’s either in his late twenties or early thirties; it’s hard to tell due to the beard. I think he’s quite good looking, and his body, though covered in bulky clothing, seems height/weight proportionate. I watch intently as he turns his back to me. Immediately, I recognize the motions of someone playing with the fly of their pants and I begin my approach. As I near, he’s turning to face me. My hand reaches out for and finds exactly what it expects; a dick offset with a nice set of balls. I give them a squeeze and then try to establish eye contact. He reaches out and grabs my crotch. With that, I’m now not sure which way this is going to go: is he looking to give or get head? We stand there rolling the other person’s privates in our hands for a bit, before, over my shoulder, at the mouth of the path, we both catch sight of The Beave.

“Let’s move back a little further,” Mr. Mini-Van suggests and I follow.

Once we move, The Beave takes the hint and heads back to the parking lot. Mr. Mini-Van finds a nice little niche near the back of the woods and turns to face me again, his dick shooting out of the open fly of his chinos. As I approach, I decide to put an end to any and all questions regarding who will be blowing whom. Shucking my jogging pants down to my ankles, I crouch before him and take his dick in my mouth. It isn’t quite hard, though in a matter of moments it comes to life, filling out to a nice 7.5 inches. It’s not thick, but it’s not thin either. In many ways it is a picture perfect cock.

Deepthroating him is no problem and he seems to like what I’m doing. I’m itching to grab my poppers and take a hit, but decide to concentrate on giving first class head instead. With his hands on either side of my head, he’s guiding his dick in and out of my mouth while I make it nice and sloppy. At this juncture I don’t have any other expectations except to make him cum. To my surprise, he reaches over my back and furtively, tentatively touches the pucker of my ass with his index finger. Since I’m ready to roll, I stick my ass out slightly and give a moan of appreciation. If he wants to go there? I’m game. With his dick crammed down my throat, he swiftly wets his finger in his mouth and retests the readiness of my hole. Since I have his dick held in my mouth, down to the root, I don’t need my hands, so I use them to spread the cheeks of my ass. As his slick finger comes in contact with my slightly pre-lubed hole, I let out an earthy moan to let him know that he is right on target. Pressing past the point of initial resistance, he opens up my ass and really begins to make me yearn for something bigger and deeper.

Some small prayers get answered in record time.

Still not believing my luck, Mr. Mini-Van pulls me to my feet and moves around behind me. He crouches down, spreads my cheeks with his hands and tongue-dives my ass big time. I bend over, not only to allow him full access, but to pull out the poppers, lube and condoms in my pockets. I take a deep hit of poppers and begin to quietly, verbally encourage Mr. Mini-Van. His tongue is awakening all sorts of nerve endings back there and it is clear that this man knows what he’s doing. In no time, I’m good to go and really feeling the need for some hardcore penetration. I guess great minds think alike, because, once back on his feet, Mr. Mini-Van is all set to slam into me. I ask him, nicely, to take it slow and am taking another hit of poppers as he enters. Based on the manner of his initial thrust, one has to question whether or not he’s acquainted with the whole concept of “taking it slow”. It hurts like a motherfucker and there’s a part of me wondering if the dude did it on purpose. The pain has me huffing on my little brown bottle like it’s filled with oxygen and I’m a drowning man. Still, something clicks, because by his second thrust my ass has warmed to the feel of his form. In no time he’s flowing in and out of my hole like liquid sunshine and I am in heaven. His hands grab me by my hips and he uses that leverage to pull me back and forth on his dick. Soon, I pick up the rhythm and begin taking over the driver’s seat, bouncing my ass and fucking back onto his fuck stick.

With a sudden halt, he pulls out of me and steps back. I’m thinking… oops. Big mess? But, no, he simply wants to undo his pants and pull up his shirt. It’s then that I notice, or realize – oops – no condom. Mr. Mini-Van is taking my ass raw. In no time we pick up right where we left off. I’m taking yet another hit of poppers and talking up a storm (for some reason), telling him how great it feels. I wish could stand behind him in order to watch his ass cheeks flex while pumping my hole. I bet it looks hot. His arms are now forward and completely outstretched, his hands gripping my shoulders. That’s when the slamming gets real ugly. Mr. Mini-Van is taking all his anger out on my butt. Who knew fucking could be so therapeutic?

There’s something about going raw in the great outdoors that seems so natural. The entire time I’m begging him to breed my hole. To seed me, fill me, use me. Not that Mr. Mini-Van needs any encouragement. He has his own agenda firmly in mind (and stuck up my ass), and since he does, I decide it’s time to work on a project of my own. I slick up the palm of my right hand with saliva and start working my dick. It’s already semi-hard, despite the poppers, and between the sensation of my spit-soaked hand and the pounding my ass is taking, I’m rock hard in no time. One of the reasons I like this cock ring so much is that it puts my balls under tremendous pressure, a pressure that increases with each body slam from behind – and there is nothing I like better than having a dude fuck the cum right out of me. Mr. Mini-Van lets out a small noise, which my ears pick up on right away. He keeps pounding away for another couple of minutes before pulling off of me again. Pretty sure that he’s shot his load; I work out my own load and send it spilling onto the leaf-covered ground.

I check in with him right away and sure enough, he tells me he came. The second he pulls out, I whip around, crouch down and take his dick into my mouth. It’s clean as a whistle and I suck out whatever cum remains from the head of his dick.

As I stand, I start laughing, still giddy from the poppers and having just shot my own load. I’m a little amazed that a married dude would be so careless as to bareback a total stranger, but, hey… who am I to judge. He’s all smiles as he zips up and takes off; pausing just long enough to tell me that he hopes to see me again. With that, he walks off into the haze of the darkening woods.

“Anytime,” I say.


He disappears from sight and I immediately crouch down and push his load out of my hole. I grow giddy all over again at the sight of his load; it’s so fucking huge; we’re talking major baby batter. Grabbing the bottle of water I brought with me, I place it over my recently fucked hole and, squeeze the bottle from the bottom, causing the water to shoot up inside me. Then, I push the water out in order to flush out my ass. Hey, I do my best to run a clean house.

As I move down the path, back to my car, I am more than a little titillated that a married dude just pounded the fuck out of my ass and majorily spermed my hole. The guilt that I know will come later has yet to dim the exhilaration I’m feeling, and for the moment, I allow myself, unburdened by the facts of this situation, to bask in the afterglow.

Ah, married men… there’s nothing more tantalizing than tasting the forbidden.

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