He was just posed there, his feet on the ground, half sitting in the seat swing in the overgrown abandoned playground at the back of the elementary school. I had walked over here on a whim to cool down from the sharp retort I had unexpectedly made to my mother at the lunch table. This after her third badly cloaked jab on why I hadn’t married yet and given her grandchildren.
She knew why I hadn’t married yet, but she just was ignoring it. Was I going to have to bring a man home and let him fuck me on the table during one of her luncheons for her to accept what was?
Still, it wasn’t her fault. My dad had left her for another man, so I could understand why she had thrown up these futile barriers of nonacceptance. It had been years since I’d come home. I made a good living out on the West Coast in those movies Mother would never see. I meant it to be a pleasant visit. But she kept after me. After I’d lost my cool, I had to get out of the house. She’d already told me my elementary school had been closed down for three years and they didn’t know what to do with it, and I’d said I might walk over there. So, saying this was the time seemed natural. I’d been working out lightly just before lunch and was in just gym shorts, a T, and sneakers. But it wasn’t like the school house was in the ritzy part of town, so I just mumbled something to her about where I was going and left the house in as calm a manner as I could. It wasn’t her fault. I knew she wanted grandchildren. And there was what my father did to her. Still . . .
The schoolhouse always had been in endanger of being engulfed in the inevitable kudzu that laid claim to anything that wasn’t moving in Arkansas. So, it wasn’t a surprise that it looked somewhat like sleeping beauty’s castle when I got over there. I had intended to walk all the way around it and then go home and maybe try to talk this issue out with my mother. We just couldn’t go on this way. But still, I think only a shock and the obvious of the inevitable would break through her shell, as painful as that would be. But, could I do what had to be done?
I wasn’t expecting to see anyone at the school, and so it was a real shock when I saw him there, in the overgrown playground, standing against the only swing that still had a well-worn leather strap seat in it.
He must have wondered if I was some sort of parks official or school watchman, because he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him and looked a little guilty—and he was poised at the swing, obviously having been prepared to try it out, but now unsure of whether he should take flight instead.
He was Hispanic, no doubt one of the transient laborers who came in to work the fields for a couple of weeks at harvest and then moved on. He wore only worn jeans, washed so many times they were nearly white in places and with slits and ravels at the knees and on the hems. He was barefoot and had long, sensuous feet with plump toes, but with every toe in perfect alignment, evidence that he only wore shoes when he had to—or possibly when he could get them. The development of the muscles of his abs, chest, and arms evidenced a man who worked the fields hard and well and carried his full weight of harvest. Honest and hardworking—and straightforward. As well as being naturally dark, he was heavily tanned from having worked out in the open; his face was lean and chiseled and expressive, and, although I assumed he wore his long, black hair in a pony tail when he worked, it was loose and falling straight down to beyond his shoulders now. He had a blue sun-burst tattoo centered on his navel and was wearing a thick gold chain around his neck. But other than that, his only adornment was broad, full lips that were uncertain when he first saw me, but that broadened out into a smile of recognition as I stood, transfixed in that surprising discovery of such a beautiful, sensuous man in such an unlikely place.
He spoke first, cutting through several minutes of wonder and verbal fencing. I had already decided that I would have him if he was even remotely interested in fucking me. I needed relief from two days of tip-toeing around reality in my mother’s house.
“Derick Derringer?” he asked, somewhat incredulously.
And that’s all it took to set up the coupling, to establish the inevitability of his hot breath on my neck and his brown manhood churning inside me. Derick Derringer was my movie name.
I nodded in agreement.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, although he clearly did.
And so I provided confirmation simply by pulling my T and shorts off right there and then and flexing to let him see the movement of the gecko tattoo just below and to the right of my navel. My signature tattoo.
Holding his smile, he unbuttoned his jeans and spread them wide and freed a plump brown cock with proportions that matched his long, sensuous feet.
“There’s only one swing, but I’m willing to share,” he said. “Will you swing with me?”
And I walked right into him, between his spread legs, still encased in the tight jeans. I reached down for him and he for me and we kissed, first tentatively, and then deeply. I went down on my knees and sucked him to massive, throbbing readiness, as he perched on the leather seat strap and moved slowly back and forward, moving his cock deep into my throat or to either side of my inner cheeks and then rocking back to where the tip almost cleared the pressure of my lips. Rocking back and forth, using the swing as a sling.
It wasn’t long, though, before he was shuddering and murmuring for me, pleading for me to let him fuck me. He needn’t have asked. He held sway over me from the moment I saw the flexing of his chest and arm muscles in the first minute I had entered the playground.
Luckily, I never left a house without a condom or two and a tube of lube. I went back to my shorts and retrieved these. I used the lube on me as I walked back and I handed him the condom and the tube. He only took the condom, which he palmed.
First we swing, he said. Having gotten my assent, he was all control now—and that was fine with me. He gestured for me to mount his lap, and I did so, facing him, my legs straddling his hips in the strap seat, and he pushed off.
We soared back and forth, swinging higher and higher, his cock sliding across my puckering hole in the crevice between my butt cheeks and mine rubbing up and down on his belly, using the center of that tattooed sun as its target. I clung to him with my arms around his heaving chest as he swung us higher and higher, increasing the friction, making me tremble, me feeling him tremble too. Both of us sighing and moaning in anticipation of what was to come.
Then he brought us to a stop, and pushed my shoulders down to his ankles. I watched up the length of my body as he fumbled with the condom and the lube and, dropping the spent packet and wrinkled tube to the side of the swing in the dirt, he held my torso in close with powerful thighs and calves and took my hips in his hands and pulled me, slowly, painfully, fillingly, gloriously onto his cock. My lips were on his plump brown nipple and as I felt his cock at my rim, I tongued up to that gold chain around his neck and, taking the hard, smooth links in my mouth, sucked hard, suppressing the scream of first possession, awed and glorified by a thickness and stretching that rivaled anything I experienced on the movie set—loving that first moment of being invaded, taken. The start of the fuck.
Moving me up and down on the plunging tool with a vise grip on my hips, he fucked me until I was writhing about and crying out and groaning and grunting. At length, he put his hands below my shoulder blades and pulled me back up close into his chest.
He pulled my ankles up until they were entwined in the ropes of the swing high over my head, and he began to swing us again. Higher and higher. Each arc of the swing pulling my ass canal down to the root of his cock; each upswing sliding him toward my entrance.
Back, forth, Up, back, In, out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Deeper inside; fuller thickness. Whimpers and cries; moans and groans. Not all of those mine. Twitching and lurching. Fuck, fuck fuck. Deep, deep, deep. A scream of passion in unison, and I came up his belly as the head of the condom filled out deep inside me.
He brought us to a stop, the calloused heels of his feet dug in the dirt and knees flexed. My legs came down and wrapped themselves around his waist, and I continued to slowly move against him, not wanting it to stop. Lost in the fuck of the swing. Feeling him diminish, but wanting him still, deep, deep inside me.
He murmured something into my ear that I didn’t understand—I think in Spanish. He was as transported to another world as I was.
I murmured back. He didn’t understand me either. But he asked for a repeat.
“What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?” I asked.
He moved his head away from mine and gave me a questioning look. I was still moving my ass against him, rippling my canal muscles, keeping him hard inside me, making him engorge again, bringing him back to lustful strength.
“Have you ever fucked on a dining room table?” I asked.
He laughed, buried his lips and teeth into the hollow of my neck, and responded to the tune my passage walls were playing on his captured manhood by swinging us heavenward once more.