Welcome to Bridgeport (m/m, size, relationship)

Nice chapters and a nice story keep it up.

Part 4 - October 1st



Tonight, Marcos threw me the keys to El Jota. In a safety lane boogie, I have the long hood pointed down the Ryan, headed for the Skyway ramp.



30 minutes earlier I had rang him, after spending a good portion of every weekend with him in the last month. I didn't want to look I was desperate or in puppy love or anything, and neither did he: we compensated by tinkering with El J, starting the rewiring of my place, only occasionally speaking of sexuality, and getting it on only one other time, which wound up as another but longer JO session, mano y mano. In there.



Walking up to the garage the JO session flashes back the cop car was sitting right here: Marcos and I in the garage last weekend, bench racing, doors open, mid-afternoon, no tension between us. Car talk segues into sexual talk, more growing up experiences and value comparisons, personality probes, in the same low confessional voices we seem to fall into. We sit on the old barstools, I face the door, his back to the door and facing the bench, looks up from his glossy auto parts porn, waits to catch my eye, makes a "let's go" face, and growls one word:

"Puñeta," closing the catalog.

He's starting to recognize that hearing his Spanish makes me horny. "Dondé? Aquí?", looking around. The roll-up door is wide open.

Casting a mock casual glance over his shoulder, he pulls the waistbands of both underwear and brown "MC" sweats down past his nuts to expose his dong, head peeking out the foreskin, dark brown and gray and purple and pink all at the same time. Motions with a nod for me to touch him. At the instant I start reaching, I don't look at Marcos but out the door, and motion catches my eye - in the reflection of the big glass storm window propped on one wall, a Crown Vic grill, black on white. Shit. I pull my hand back just in time for a marked Chicago cop car to pull up and stop in the alley.

The cop behind the wheel says loudly "Hey - necesito El Jota esta noche".

Marcos slowly raises waistbands, to casually park his fists at his bent hips. As he does so, without looking up from his catalog, in a loud voice: "Mano! Por que no me lo prestaras, guey."

So this is Raul, his brother I've been hearing about. Acknowledge, a short salute in his direction. Raul looks like Marcos, but in a weird, undefinable way - refined? Sleeker? Smaller... 7/8ths scale? Darker... Eyes connecting, his glowering, Raul looks like he should be a cop; Marcos could maybe pass for a cop, if he got a high and tight like Raul's. Try to get him to cut it someday. But I like the fact that Marcos doesn't cut his hair, as I take him, then Raul in during the rest of their exchange, Marcos getting up to walk to the window of the patrol car. Solid beefy football ass butt. More exchange, then in my direction: "and Danny here, he the one buy panadería." So far money hasn't been an issue for the parking of his work truck in one of the empty bays in my garage.

Getting up to stand next to Marcos, I offer a verbal hello to a Marcos-caliber smile and hand from Raul in the driver's window - a subtle, yet vast 180 from the visage he wore pulling up the alley. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Dan." Somehow I pick up on the two of them making quick crotch hikes in the same moment, while making small talk.

Raul departs slowly as schedules are exchanged, the roll-up door is then closed, and Marcos and I are now facing each other on the stools again, a bottle of Gun Oil between us, big cock demonstrations for each other. He grunts and squirts all over his legs and floor, then mildly and humorously hassles me on my nut, this time rather paltry. We use shop rags to clean up. We take turns at the carboy urinal. Piss out taboo thought of them tag teaming me.



Tonight, his basement door was ajar, gap lit dark red. I push it open to find Marcos, on a weight bench in nondescript workout gear - gray cutoff t-shirt, grey gym shorts, both the same shade, looking military. He's showing. Half hard. No underwear. Slow jungle drum n bass from a boombox. Kinda looking porno, actually. Or slightly "American Beauty". He sees me, sets his press down, crunches up and leans over to snatch a handful of something on the table with the boombox. He lobs it at my chest - keys, GM. Brown suede fob. Pontiac logo.

Back to bench pressing, "Go for a ride. Cool out tonight. Good air. Open her up."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Pause. "And Danny?"

He locks eyes, and says "You be good," smile cracking.

"You know it, man. Thanks. How far?"

"Just go. You got a phone. I call when worried."



After exiting the Ryan ramp, I pop the console - Marcos had installed a stealth system, a blue LED apparition in otherwise decidedly incandescent interior lighting. At least it's hidden.

"without this safety net / you're freed"

If I softshoe on the three-quarters tank El Jota has, I can make it pretty far into Michigan.

"to find serene / pleasure of speed"

I pay the toll, roll out past the dumbass McDonalds oasis, and nail it.

"erupting / violent machine"

The Skyway lights start streaming. I back off the throttle coming down the bridge.

"precise exultance / so serene"



I made it to Traverse City before I got nervous about a call and gas was low. Turned back and held 75 until the Skyway lights were rolling into the long hood again. Back before dawn, at least.

Marcos doesn't keep a door opener in the car, so I let the basso profundo of El Jota's lumpy idle announce my presence. I see him down the gangway through his gate, black doo rag, dark track pants, same gray undershirt, sandals. I back in, shut down, get out. Tired and exhilarated. My legs feel as they did as I was climbing the spiral stairs that first night. El Jota's idle makes me horny. Now that it's shut down, I want more.

"So how she do?", Marcos with a motion towards the car. The same motion on its way down has his fingertips grazing the back of my arm.

"Great, man... so smooth... torque! My god, it pulls..." Shaking my head.

His arm outstretched, heavy hand shaking my shoulder. "Nice, eh?"

I make a "no doubt" face, and his eyes search it. After a few moments, he has the beginnings of kissy face. The ticking heat from El Jota warms the garage. His hand drops to stroke my back. Our free hands start exploring each other.



We make out against El Jota for what seems an hour, pants around ankles, no words exchanged, serious soul searching going on. Marcos eventually trying to mount my hole which I quietly shut down. Arms crossed in the channel between top of fender and C-pillar, I lock my hamstrings, the insides of my thighs around his cock, spread my feet as far as my pants will allow, and brace. Marcos knows the drill from the guero office boy, pants and humps wordlessly from behind, a bronzed, grunting gentle giant, reaching around to jack me off with a fist full of spit.

At one point he takes a step sideways to relocate me, across the trunk, frisk style- Raul?... his humping pushing me against the fender, his big fist connecting with sheetmetal to make a few dull thumps before he realizes to leave jacking space yeah don't fuck up the car and backs off a bit. Ramping up to release almost immediately, Marcos bites me hard on the neck, clamping hard and not letting go, a guttural, repetitive "un... un..." describing his nut busting, and the backside of my fat Celtic nutsack is soon coated and dripping with his copious load. His jaw relents, his body leans into mine for support, jacking me fluidly, and I shoot my load in the wheelwell and on the tire, Marcos directing the streams.



Goddamn, that hurt. That's gonna show, the mirror tells me.

And it feels like I was straddling a steam pipe.

Part 5 - November 1st



I can now take about 7/10ths of the full size dildo I bought. The dildos turned out to be of a harder, more unforgiving material to the inside of my ass than my hand had casually judged in the store. Maybe oversizing will do the trick, I had thought.

It's not so much Indian summer anymore, when it's been in the fifties during the day for 2 weeks now. Extending El Jota's season. I've found out one of Marcos' vices - street racing. "The only gamble I enjoy," he says. We're in El Jota, on the 103rd St. ramp to hit the 103rd and Stony action tonight.

Stony Island Av. becomes a 6 lane thoroughfare at 95th leading into the Bishop Ford Expressway, but picks up again as a wide industrial access road at 103rd, with a kink in the middle. I've seen street action down here before, in my delivery truck days - most notably a strobing cop car in a smoky burnout to signal "show's over" for a night's racing.



Marcos chats up the owner of a 91-ish 5.0 Mustang, pointing at me occasionally. Flag and/or money man tonight.

El Jota and the Mustang line up, bleach is thrown down, tires warmed - signal dropped, and the Mustang slips sideways as El Jota digs in and rises like a lineman out of a three point stance.

Money collected, boasting and griping exchanged, he scoops me up and blasts 10/10ths down the rest of 103rd to 122nd, 122nd after the bridge to Torrance, 8/10ths down Torrance to 130th around the Ford plant, and smoothly dodges potholes as he exits 130th onto Doty, a frontage road to the Bishop Ford. Not until the exit do I speak "Volandos bajito guey!", knowing that this stretch of road is mostly used by gravel and concrete trucks and is not conducive to speed.

Slowing, Marcos looks over at me, eyes bright with adrenaline, and I at him. He's pulling on his dick in his track pants, killing the lights before swinging the long hood into a defunct concrete depot driveway, it curving several times to clear ditches lining the driveway with cattails. He's going to fuck the shit out of me. Or something... to work off the adrenaline.

With quick motions, we're out of the car. Marcos is expressionless, one hand down his pants, a vigilant gaze up and down the gravel road as he slowly steps around to my side of the car. I'm guessing we have five, maybe 10 minutes, or until we see lights. He passes in front of me and disappears into the cattails.

About a hundred feet into the cattails reveals the strange, dark, industrial pool of Lake Calumet, and a picnic table on a lonely mound at its edge. For years I had seen cars parked along the frontage road, some with a figure approaching or departing with a pole and tackle. Here was where they were fishing from. I note the lack of debris, condom wrapper or fast food or otherwise.

Marcos motions towards the table, and as I move, his hands positioning me in what I briefly imagine the moves Raul would use in a frisk, another frisk? dryhumping me through his track pants as he undoes my jeans, slips hands into waistbands to push my underwear and jeans past my ass, pushes on my shoulder blades, then fumbling with something and hawking spit- more fumbling, a condom, he brought one with?, lines up knob with hole-

"Dude-" without looking at him I find the courage to say the words "this will go easier if we go home." Rising and turning back to look at him, "I like it outdoors and shit, but I'm too wound up to loosen up." But I want to see if my work has paid off. And it is kinda nice out tonight. El Jota somewhat hidden from plain view...

"I have to nut, bad." Adrenaline. I look down at the silhouette of his cock in the darkness - its sheer size has my hole immediately clenching. He spins me around and pushes me down against the table. Whoa- hostile!?

I consider asking him if this is the way it went with Anna, but opt for no buzzkill. Turning back again to catch him full in the eye, "Marcos. Let's go home."

He holds still for a moment. Then, with an aggressive push off my shoulders, Marcos pulls up his track pants, tucking his softening dong in his underwear, eyes locked on me as I turn to rise, looking pissed and relenting at the same time. The one that likes to bite me. There's the beast in him. Thought so. Machismo. Pride. Be cool.

*sweats*

feeling a need to assist you with the editing again..

On the way home we decide on his place using few words, first the garage, then his bed. Marcos' bedroom is spacious, the back half of an attic conversion, ceiling vaulted, east view. Butter colored walls, the color of the yellowish light always behind him in the window. A four post bed, dark thick wood, with red flannel sheets. I take my time cleaning out in the shower, coming out to find Marcos' broad back to me, sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Not sure what he's doing.

"Hey."

"Que." As I approach, I see he's in confessional mode again. Prayer? Looks up at me, expressionless. Adrenaline rush gone.

I sit next to him, we make out a bit, he pushes me back on the bed, reaches to put out the light. Rolling me on my right side, Marcos pulls up covers, spoons behind me, drapes a heavy arm, he starts to inhale, exhale, slowly. Studied. No breathing theatrics.

His body is a furnace under here. Good for winter.

He's semi hard, but not moving.

Soon he's asleep. He snores.

I've never been able to sleep well with anyone in a bed.

Before?



We're in almost the same position we fell asleep in. He's making out gently with the back of my neck and ears, favoring where he likes to bite. I'm gonna have to get a tattoo or something to cover that up. What feels like a knuckled hot dog is making a gentle in/out/around motion at my hole. I'm rock hard. A slight shift between bodies. He is, too. My right arm is asleep. With my left, I move the pillow from under my head to my groin, and roll onto my stomach, feeling the blood return to my arm.

As I roll, Marcos pushes back the covers and crouches on top of me, knees on either sides of my hips, exploring with hands and cock, reaching for a condom and lube.

I want to tell him- I mutter into the mattress "I've been working on it."

"Hm?"

"I've been working on it. Loosening up. So I can take you. Vaya lento, papi."

He leans to one of my ears, gives it a gentle wet willie and a pulling bite, says into it in the lowest growl I've heard out of him yet: "Eso es lo que quiero oír, Danny boy... te la quiero meter bien rico y hasta adentro. No te lastimare, papito."

After the evidence in the cattails, I was expecting harsher treatment, even after all the talking we've done - but here in bed Marcos is rather gentle and has an incredible agility for his bulk against soft mattress. Through one or two word exchanges and a loss of the awareness of time, what seems like it's been an hour?, I've got him inside me. Almost to the hilt. His pelvic bone conforms to my ass in short humps, gaining yardage with each drive. Some more acclimation, gasping, accommodation, swearing, angle and pillow adjustment, some more swearing, blood oxygen OK, senses steadied, more yardage and I say "OK. Go for it."

Expecting him to maybe get angry with it, he instead clamps his arms and picks me up and ramps up to fluid sawing in and out. My eyes water, my thoughts empty.

"Oh Danny… tienes un culito bien rico!! Estas bien apretado... y me gusta como... aprietas la verga. Shit..."

"Yeah... c'mon, Marcos... c'mon... AH! Shit!... ungh!" It's like my prostate is being massaged lengthwise by a baseball bat. I want to yell "stop" - don't. Take it like a man.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, c'mon papi. I gotcha, boricua. I'm OK. Breed my Irish ass. Let's go." Backing into him on the 'go'. My god he's gonna rip me apart...

"Quieres esta verga, papi? La quieres? Eh? Tu sabes como moverte para metertela mejor…" His rhythm picks up. "Quiero metertela hasta adentro, cabron… ah!... abrete las nalguitas cabron!!... sacame la leche, cabron sucio!!!... Ai, shit!..."

There's the beast again. "Drop- your weight- on me."

"Eh?"

"Dejate caer sobre mi..." Marcos seems to know what I'm after, and his agility shows again - he's got enough weight distributed to pin me good, pressing me further into the mattress with each fuck and grunt with abandon, and a hand left over to run up and down my flanks.

"Eso Danny… te quiero partir papi ahorita mismo… ahi, te- va- toda- mi- verga… abrete, cabroncito... que sabes, que te gusta bien fuerte... y sabes- como! hacerlo!..."

Condom breakage enters the mind - I let it go. Trust. Courage. Foolishness. In between grunts I say "You... un... uh- think the- condom's- OK?"

I can feel his mind process that by the stutter in his rhythm, and he pulls out, all the way. Oh my God put it back in. I can feel my gaping porno hole now. Crass, but for real. Marcos does a quick check, a short "Sí", mounts again, starts to slide back in. Remarkably, my ass is numb and receptive. Dumbstruck. I hope it'll close up. And it's tactile now... I can feel where the condom he has on is unrolled to.

Another round of pounding for him to regain what mounting orgasm was lost during the check, and his arms clamp tighter, huge hands gripping, humping involuntarily as he starts to let go in my ass, the growl turning into that "Aii... ai guey!!!... un... un!... " signaling his point of no return, and twitching whimpers and powerful spastic breaths exhale between my shoulder blades with each pulse and swell of his massive cock. This time he didn't bite me.



Then, as the pulsing subsides, the moment I've been waiting for - the weight of Marcos' world, slowly settling down on me. "Ohhh... mannnn..." I groan into the mattress as I relish it for as long as it can last. I could do this forever.

As soon as my body feels his cock softening, my ass begins to squeeze. It takes a second attempt to put him all out. Once out, I feel the sensation of gaping fully. Something's not right, down there. Distended is the word.

Grinding my ass, sniffing a couple places in between words, Marcos growls again behind an ear "Oh, Danny boy… mi papito, no sabes como me haces sentir… estas bien sabroso... me podria coger ese culito siempre.” Nuzzles and kisses my neck. On his spot. That he likes to bite.

"Roll off me a bit. Pero quedate cerca." He does, keeping an arm across my back, angled to cup a big slow hand around the back of my skull, rubbing my buzz cut, kneading my neck, running it down my back and up again to repeat.

We stay like this, me still face down on the bed, him alongside, until I fall almost to sleep. I raise my head to slurp in drool, he shifts his weight again, then rises from the bed, and attends to the condom in the bathroom.

Sound of heavy pissing.

Reassumes his original position. I feel him settle, more minor shifting. The arm parks across my back, big hand slowly rubbing the back of my head, heavy enough to tip me into unconsciousness after all that...

His hand feels big enough to crush my head.



The sun is coming up.



Wet down there. Mattress too.



Hope it'll close up. Keep my shit.




Guess I nut later.

...the desired effect

And a big hug and thanks to you for that. Big thanks for the original idea and structure (from a year ago) should go to fortiesfun, but it would appear he is no longer around.

Biggest thanks of all (and a big wet sloppy BJ) should go to sedated, who is helping me with translation. Gracias mejor, vato!


I have several directions in which this could continue - one being hooking up with Marcos' brother, the cop Raul. But I am open to suggestions from the audience... I have part 6 about 50% finished, but could just as easily chuck it for a better idea.


And thanks to whoever you are, for reading this far.

Outrageously fantastic. So erotic. Very, very well done. Can't wait to see more.

it's really hot. could use some gentle editing.

as someone who doesn't read spanish, it's hard for me to go back & forth google-translating marcos' exclamations. suppose that's what i get for being an ignorant, mono-language american... :)

Its nice again and I don't have ideas its your creative story man so anything you write will fine. Editing is improving to :D. not that I am one to talk >.>

GodDAMN, danny. Thanks for turning me on to this story...fuck it's great! We gotta talk...

Im moving to Bridgeport.

i read this on literotica. Just as good here. Maybe better.

Wow dude!!! As I told u before.... I can stop reading ur histories,they r completly hot!!!

U know count on me with all the support u need for the translations on the future.

Sedated!

So...when do we get 'more'??

Fucking Hot! Can't wait to hear more, man! It would be cool to bring Raul into the story at some point. Keep writing!