Bent Over His Tailgate in the Texas Heat

The July heat in Oak Cliff sat on me like wet wool. I was twenty-nine, six-two, thick through the chest from years of pulling cable, and the roofer on the ridge had owned my attention since the first bundle went up. Cade Navarro, thirty-two, arms corded, stomach cut, a dark trail vanishing under his belt when he bent for the nail gun. Every time he caught me looking, he held it, mouth crooked, like he already knew the ending.

He climbed down at noon with a gallon jug and stopped close enough that I smelled tar, salt, and gas-station soap.
- You gonna stare all day or use that mouth.
- Working up to it. Your crew's gone.
- Mine too, till two. Truck's behind the dumpster. Not in the mood for shy.
- Micah. I'm not shy. I'm particular.
- Particular's fine. I want all of you.

- Then we don't finish in the lot. Motel off I-35. Lock on the door.
- Ten minutes. I'm still putting my mouth on you before we leave. You good.
- Yeah. Don't go easy because the sun's up.

He walked me behind the dumpster. His F-250 sat with the tailgate down and the toolbox shoved aside. The lot was empty. He took my face in both rough hands and kissed me hard enough to sting.

His tongue pushed into my mouth and I opened for it, sweat and orange drink on his breath. I grabbed the heavy muscle of his ass through dusty jeans and hauled him in until our cocks ground together. He dragged my shirt off. Sun hit my chest. His callused thumbs rolled my nipples until heat shot straight to my groin. I got his shirt off too and bit the swell of his pec, tasting salt and tar, feeling the muscle jump under my teeth. He groaned into my hair and popped my belt.

He turned me and bent me over the tailgate. The metal was almost too hot under my forearms. He shoved my jeans and briefs to my boots, spit into his palm, and pressed a thick finger to my hole, circling, then pushing in. I bore down and took it. A second finger joined, stretching me, while his other hand stroked my cock slow and filthy. I rocked back onto his hand, the smell of hot rubber and roofing tar in my nose, my balls already tight.

He lined his cock up and pushed. The head was blunt and wide. The stretch burned, then opened into a deep fullness as he sank in inch by inch until his thighs met mine. I was stuffed, shaking, forehead on my wrists. The burn had gone sweet. I could feel every thick inch of him. He pulled almost out and drove back in, and the angle hit that spot that whited the edges of my sight. Sweat dripped from his chest onto my spine. His grip bruised my hips. I wanted the bruises. He fucked me steady and deep, the tailgate creaking, my cock slapping my stomach, the unfinished street oblivious beyond the dumpster.

It could not last out there. He reached around, jerked me rough and slick, and I came hard across the metal, pulsing, my hole clamping down on him. He pulled out and finished across my lower back, hot stripes, his breath breaking on my shoulder. We dragged our clothes into order. I followed his truck ten minutes north, still open, the seat a reminder every time I shifted gears.

The motel had a rattling ice machine and a clerk who never looked up. Room 114 smelled like bleach. Cade locked the door and stripped. Naked he was worse for me: cock thickening again, heavy balls, a body built on roofs and garage iron, veins up his forearms. I got naked and he walked me back until the mattress caught my calves. I pushed him down and knelt between his thighs, carpet rough on my knees.

I licked the sweat from his hip and took him into my mouth, salt and the faint musk of where he had just been inside me. I worked the head, then sank deeper until he thickened against my palate and his hand settled in my hair. I sucked him slow, then hungry, rolling his balls, my other palm on the hard plane of his stomach. His thighs shook. When his hips started chasing my mouth I climbed up and straddled him, already aching to have him back in.

I sank down on his cock in one long slide. The fullness dropped my jaw. My hole gripped him on every rise. I rode him with both hands on his chest, grinding so he hit deep, and he thrust up to meet me. The wet sound filled the room. The headboard knocked the wall. Sweat ran down my back onto his stomach. He felt huge like that, every inch of him, my thighs burning as I worked myself on him.

He rolled us without pulling out. I landed on my back, knees hooked over his arms, folded open, and he fucked me harder than the lot had allowed. Eyes on mine. Jaw tight. I stroked myself in time with his hips, slick and desperate. The second orgasm coiled mean at the base of my spine. When it broke I came across my stomach in long pulses, and the clench dragged him over. He buried deep and came inside me, hot and thick, hips jerking until he was spent and heavy, forehead against mine.

We stayed there while the air conditioner knocked and I-35 hissed outside. His mouth found my neck, softer than the rest of the day, and his hand spread over my ribs. I was wrecked, used, and already counting job sites until I saw that truck again. His weight pinned me to the cheap mattress. I did not want him to move.