tagGay MaleOn the Docks

On the Docks


I was moving among the containers on the dock, looking for the one that had the goods I'd had shipped from Portugal in it, when I reached a pocket of isolated dock space between the stacks of truck containers and the waterfront. I was about to turn and move back along the row of containers to examine the numbers on the other side of the tight aisle, when I heard moaning.

Thinking that it might be someone who had fallen and hurt himself, I went to the end of the line of containers and was making a turn toward the sound I'd heard when I saw them and drew back into the shadows.

The bigger of the two figures, a muscle-bound dockworker, was on his back on some sort of thick matting. He was wearing a yellow safety hard hat, a denim shirt open to expose a darkly tanned barrel chest, a tool belt around his waist, and heavy workers' boots—and nothing else. The wiry young Hispanic sitting on his hips and fucking himself on the prone figure's thick cock in long strides was only wearing a yellow hard hat and work boots. The Hispanic youth was doing all of the work and most of the moaning. He was leveraging off his knees and calves and holding his ankles with his hands, while the big guy under him was lying steady and holding him on both sides at the waist.

The big guy was smiling and muttering something in Spanish that must have been arousing to the young guy fucking himself on the thick pole, because his eyes were glassy and his jaw slack in the transport of the fuck.

I watched, mesmerized, as I liked to watch and was already guiltily envying the smaller man, as the big guy dug his heels into the matting and slowly pitched the young Hispanic forward over his chest and began taking over the upward stroking, more vigorously, and the young Hispanic groaned and moved his hips in a rotating motion to make love to the cock inside him at all angles. My eyes went to the root of that thick cock and the few inches above that were disappearing and then reappearing again, rhythmically, as the big guy drove his cock. The young man's hole puckered closely around the plowing cylinder, his light brown a stark contrast to the hard-white marbling of the big guy's cock. I felt a gravelly moan building up from deep in my belly.

Although I had my hand on my own engorging cock through the denim of my jeans, I was afraid the fucking couple would hear me groaning my arousal at the sight of their raw coupling. So I drew back—only to find there was no place to go. Thick, hairy arms surrounded me from behind and I was being lifted off the ground by a monster of a man. My clipboard clattered to the ground, and the fucking couple glanced my way. Little surprise was being registered, though. They both gazed at me with hooded eyes that showed they were lost in their own lust—and no doubt that they recognized a comrade, the man holding me, as someone who could easily control the interloper.

An arm crossed up my chest, holding me to a mass of muscle and the other hand was pulling at my belt buckle and my zipper. I cried out, and the sound reverberated down the tiny aisle I had walked up between the containers. But I had little hope of rescue. As my trousers and briefs were being stripped off my legs, I turned my head up to see who was assaulting me, only to see in my confusion and consternation a blur of stubble on a square chin topped by yet another yellow safety helmet.

I struggled—fruitlessly—as the giant of a dockworker turned me and slammed my back against the ribbed steel side of the containers on one side of the aisle. His hips were roughly insinuating themselves between my thighs; he rolled my pelvis up toward his pelvis, and his cock cap was pushing insistently at my asshole. He was a swarthy guy with a profusion of black, curly hair and a sloppy grin that told me that he was going to get what he wanted.

And he did just that. His bulb popped into my entrance to the tune of heavy groans and cries from me. He somehow had gotten a condom on, which sent a flash of relief through me in counterpoise to the knowledge that I most certainly was going to be fucked. He held the bulb there, giving me a chance through groans and panting to open to him. And then with a throaty laugh and a profusion of Spanish mixed with the more understandable "fucks" and "nice," he was splitting me wide with his ravishing cock. Having been fucked thick before, I instinctively widened my stance as best as I could and dug my heels into the containers across the narrow aisle.

As he pumped, the pain slowly filtered into a flowing of a familiar, consuming pleasure deep inside me and a rising of my own fluids. Almost involuntarily but with animal instinct, I took up the rhythm of the fuck with him, leveraging my own thrusts off the wall opposite with the heels of my feet. The tones of my moaning and sighing changed, and the unwilling verbalizing of my "yes, yes, like that, oh yes" caused the man to grin down into my face, knowing I was fully under his control now and wouldn't have stopped what had become a mutual taking even if given the opportunity. My hands clutched his butt cheeks, fingernails digging into flesh and pulling him into me with each thrust. I felt him relax and his lips came down to mine, and I opened to his tongue. When he started to take his tongue out, I closed my mouth over it and sucked it, causing him to moan and shudder—and his cock to increase the rhythm of the fuck.

We were full partners in the fuck now, and knowing I was going with him, his fucking took on more finesse, as in long-time lovers giving and taking all of the mutual enjoyment they can. For a few moments he stopped the movement of his hips, and I took over the fuck, leveraging off the wall with the balls of my feet. I released his tongue and he grabbed mine with his lips and gave me the same suck I had been giving him.

With a shudder, he regained control and started a screwing motion with his dick, rotating his hips and moving his cock around in me as my walls stretched to accommodate him—no longer resisting him, making caressing love to his cock. He was hitting and rubbing against all walls inside me, driving me wild in the long strokes as his bulb rubbed across my prostate. I was as lost in the fuck as my assaulter was, and I threw my head back and, with the thought that I had reached the height of passion, ejaculated up my belly between us.

I would have been at least neutral about the forced taking if it had stopped then. But it didn't. The dockworker continued stroking me hard, increasingly roughly, ever faster and deeper, as he lost his own control. I raked his back under his shirt with my fingernails, and I cried out for him to split me asunder—my body telling him what I wanted to convey even if he didn't understand my words—and he lowered his head and ravaged my nipples with his teeth as my chin bounded off his yellow safety helmet. I had been fucked before, but it had not been as primevally animalistic as this surprise, forced fucking. I was transported to new heights of sensation and passion and came again. I wanted him to come in great gushes and with a total loss of his control. I wanted him to be as amazed at and moved by this coupling as I was.

I no longer was neutral. Now I wanted it to go on, pushing me to an even higher level of passion. I wanted a third and a forth creaming. But my body could only take so much pounding, and the dockworker, as young and virile and strong and lusty as he was, could hold his load for only so long. I was exhausted and was just flopping around on his pistoning cock when he finished with me—with the yelp of victory I was seeking from him at his climax.

He let me down to the ground then and I collapsed into a moaning heap, grateful that I had survived the size and power and endurance of him, sorry now that it was over. I nonsensically grabbed for his ankle as he stood over me, panting and muttering in Spanish. I didn't know how I was going to manage it, or how soon he would be capable of delivering it again, but I wanted to be transported back to the heights of that virile, primeval fucking.

His hand was on mine, prying my fingers away from my grip on his ankle.

"No, no," I was moaning softly. "You don't understand. I want it again. Fuck me again." All of my previous experiences with men had been too bland. I had no idea such passion and pleasure could be wrenched from me. I was a slut for him—for that long, thick cock swinging free above my head now. He could do anything with me now. Just as long as he fucked me again—when I'd had a chance to recover myself. Just a bit longer. I had to make him understand.

I have no idea if what I wanted conveyed. But after he'd pried my fingers away from his ankle, he was lifting me up and carrying me out onto the apron of concrete at the edge of the dock. The big dockworker I'd first seen on his back was still there, the younger Hispanic drawn off the side, crouched down on his haunches, pulling at his cock, watching the new activity. As we approached, me being carried under my erstwhile lover's arm at his side like a sack of potatoes, my lover said something in Spanish, and the young guy smiled and scrabbled around in the pocket of jeans lying nearby and fished out a condom packet.

The reclining hulky dockworker's cock was standing up straight and hard and thick, and he had a big grin on his face as the younger Hispanic rolled the condom down over his rod. The grin only broadened as my original assaulter hovered me over his midsecton and spread my thighs and butt cheeks . . . and lowered my channel onto this new, ready cock.

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