SIDEWALK SLAVE
He stood under the lamp like he owned the place. Number 98 was plastered on his brief, his skin all shiny, and his abs looked like they were sculpted. The park was deserted, and the path made whispering noises. The trees kept their secrets, and he could feel the cool night air on his skin and the heat of the crowd closing in.
They called him out like he was on display. Men in dark shirts and heavy boots, their hands looking like they could crush stuff. They moved slow, like predators. He wasn't scared; he had agreed to this. It was his duty, the way he had trained his body to be noticed and chosen.
"Ready?" one of them asked, his voice low.
He just nodded. He liked the roughness of it. He liked how everyone watched him and thought they had him for a moment. It filled him up.
They put a blindfold on him. The world got smaller. Sounds got louder—the rustle of a jacket, a laugh, the slap of a palm on a thigh. A man came up behind him. Strong arms grabbed his ribs. Hands squeezed and measured. A breath in his ear said, "Stay still."
They moved him to the pole. He felt the metal press into his shoulder. Fingers touched him all over—shoulder, chest, hip. Each touch was like they were claiming him. They smelled like iron, sweat, and cigarettes. It made his head spin, made his heart beat loud.
"Good boy," someone grunted behind him. The words were rough, like praise and orders mixed together.
He felt hands on his back, making him pose. They made him spread his legs, showing off the muscles he had worked hard for. He flexed because they told him to. It felt good to obey. The blindfold made every touch feel sharper, closer, real.
A hand slid down, warm and firm. Another cupped him, pressing, testing. He breathed through it, muscles tight, trusting the rhythm of those hands. They whispered short commands, rough and satisfied:
He stood under the lamp like he owned the place. Number 98 was plastered on his brief, his skin all shiny, and his abs looked like they were sculpted. The park was deserted, and the path made whispering noises. The trees kept their secrets, and he could feel the cool night air on his skin and the heat of the crowd closing in.
They called him out like he was on display. Men in dark shirts and heavy boots, their hands looking like they could crush stuff. They moved slow, like predators. He wasn't scared; he had agreed to this. It was his duty, the way he had trained his body to be noticed and chosen.
"Ready?" one of them asked, his voice low.
He just nodded. He liked the roughness of it. He liked how everyone watched him and thought they had him for a moment. It filled him up.
They put a blindfold on him. The world got smaller. Sounds got louder—the rustle of a jacket, a laugh, the slap of a palm on a thigh. A man came up behind him. Strong arms grabbed his ribs. Hands squeezed and measured. A breath in his ear said, "Stay still."
They moved him to the pole. He felt the metal press into his shoulder. Fingers touched him all over—shoulder, chest, hip. Each touch was like they were claiming him. They smelled like iron, sweat, and cigarettes. It made his head spin, made his heart beat loud.
He felt hands on his back, making him pose. They made him spread his legs, showing off the muscles he had worked hard for. He flexed because they told him to. It felt good to obey. The blindfold made every touch feel sharper, closer, real.
A hand slid down, warm and firm. Another cupped him, pressing, testing. He breathed through it, muscles tight, trusting the rhythm of those hands. They whispered short commands, rough and satisfied:
"Hold."
"Don’t move."
"Show me."
His breath came in short gasps. Heat built up low and bright. He felt small hands and big palms and the press of chests against his back. The men took turns, rough, gentle, wanting. He could tell when someone was watching him closely. The night was full of the sound of wanting—shoes on stone, the soft catch of leather, low voices.
"Harder," someone pushed. "Show us."
He pushed back into them. He let himself be guided. Everything was close—skin, breath, the slap of a palm on thigh. It was aggressive and tender at the same time. It was what he signed up for. He liked that they wanted him. He liked that he was theirs for a while.
When it was over, the air felt different. The blindfold came off slow. Faces hovered close. Hands smoothed his shoulders. One man offered a bottle of water—real, cool—pressed to his lips. He drank like a man who had run a long way and knew he did good.
Number 98 then knelt, chest heaving, the streetlight warm on his skin, feeling raw and owned and alive.
The men gathered around, their hands busy with themselves, their eyes locked on him. One by one, they reached their climax, their cum spilling onto his body. He felt the warm splashes, the sticky trails down his skin. He smiled, a knowing, satisfied smile, and whispered a quiet "thank you" as he walked away, leaving them to their satisfied grins and the cool night air.
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