gay erotic fiction: A man walks naked along a deserted nighttime sidewalk, openly stroking his hard cock under the streetlights, until a jogger approaches, takes possession of him, and the two stroke each other to climax in full public view.
I walk the deserted sidewalk naked except for my sneakers, the night air sitting warm against every inch of bare skin while streetlights throw hard yellow pools across the pavement and leave deep shadows between them. My hand is already on my cock, working it in long slow pulls so the head slides through the loose ring of my fingers and the shaft fills out under the open sky. No one is around. The road stretches empty in both directions, and I keep walking with my hips shifting on every step, the weight of my balls swaying free, the cool concrete under the rubber soles the only ordinary sensation left against all that exposed heat.
My cock is fully hard now. Precum beads at the tip and catches the light each time I squeeze upward; the air moves across it and makes the wetness feel sharper, more immediate. I do not hurry. The risk is the point. Anyone could turn the corner. Anyone could see the way my fist works the length, the head glistening, my abs tightening with every stroke.
A figure appears at the far end of the block, jogging at an even pace in athletic shorts and a dark T-shirt already dark with sweat at the chest. He does not change direction. He does not slow. The streetlight catches the solid lines of his thighs and the way the fabric of the shorts rides the outline of his cock. He is looking straight at me, at my naked body, at the hand pumping my shaft under the lamps, and the weight of that look lands hard even before he closes the distance.
I do not stop stroking. My heart kicks harder while my fist keeps the same rhythm, the same long pulls, as he comes on. Twenty metres. Ten. Five. The slap of his trainers grows louder until he is right up on me and only breaks stride at the last second. Then his hand is there.
The sudden weight and warmth of his palm locking around my cock stops my breath. His fingers close firm, the calluses rough against the sensitive skin just under the head; he does not squeeze hard. He simply takes possession of it, holds the whole length in one confident grip, and keeps walking me backward half a step so we stand under the brightest of the streetlights. The heat of his hand sinks into me at once. My own fingers fall away. I can feel the pulse in his thumb where it presses along the underside, sure and firm.
He looks at my face for a second. No alarm or smile, just calm assessment. Then he starts to stroke, slow at first, the full length of my cock sliding through the tunnel of his fist. The streetlight shows every vein, every wet trail of precum that smears across his knuckles. I reach for him without thinking. My palm finds the hard outline inside his shorts; the fabric is damp with sweat, and under it his cock is already rigid, pressed sideways against his thigh. I cup it, feel the heat bleed through the thin material, and squeeze once along the shaft.
He makes a low sound in his throat. Nothing more. I push the waistband of the shorts down. The elastic catches for a second on the base of his cock, then everything springs free. His dick is cut and heavy, the head already slick. It jumps once in the open air. I wrap my fingers around it and the reciprocal slide begins at once, my hand travelling the full length of him while his fist works me with matching pressure. We stand close enough that our forearms brush, close enough that I feel the quick rise and fall of his breath against my shoulder.
The public risk sits sharp in the back of my mind. Anyone could appear, a car, another jogger, a late walker. We are fully exposed under the lamps, two cocks being stroked in the open, the wet sounds of precum and skin the only noise between us. My sneakers stay planted. His trainers shift once as he adjusts his stance so our hips nearly touch. The head of his cock slides through my fist and leaves a clear smear of precum across my fingers; I bring my thumb over the tip and spread it down the shaft. His grip tightens in answer.
We fall into the same rhythm without speaking. Long strokes that pull the skin tight, shorter ones that concentrate under the heads. His free hand stays loose at his side. Mine does the same. Everything happens through the two fists locked around each other’s cocks. The heat builds fast. I feel my balls draw up. His do the same; I can see the sack tighten under the streetlight. Precum leaks freely now. It mixes on our hands, turns the strokes slicker, makes the skin shine. Every time his fist climbs my length the head of my cock flares and another bead of fluid spills. Every time I pump him the same thing happens to him.
His breath comes faster. Mine matches it. The air between us smells of sweat and sex. I can feel the pulse in his cock against my palm, the way it jumps harder with each stroke. My own shaft throbs in his grip. The shared tightening starts low in my gut and rises. I know he feels it too because his fist speeds up by a fraction and the pressure increases just under the head. No words. No warning. Only the mutual knowledge that both of us are close.
I keep stroking him through it. He does the same to me. The first pulse hits him a second before it hits me. His cock swells hard in my hand, the head flaring, and then thick ropes of cum shoot across the pavement between our feet. I feel every contraction. My own orgasm follows at once. His fist clamps down and pulls firm one last time. Cum erupts from me in heavy spurts that stripe the concrete and land across the back of his hand. The pleasure rolls through in waves, hips jerking without control, breath locked in my throat. He keeps the pressure firm until the last pulse leaves me. Then he gives one final squeeze that empties the rest of his own load.
We stay locked together, both cocks still twitching, both hands still wrapped around the other’s shaft. Cum cools on our skin under the night air. Then he lets go. He steps back half a pace, tucks his cock back into the shorts with one efficient motion, and adjusts the waistband. No glance at the mess on the pavement. No glance at me. He simply turns and resumes his run, the same even pace he had when he arrived. The slap of his trainers fades down the block until the street is empty again.
I stand alone under the lamps, still fully hard, still exposed. My cock glistens with mixed precum and cum. The warm air moves across it and across the rest of my naked body. My hand finds the shaft again without thought and gives it one slow stroke, feeling the residual sensitivity. The pavement is marked. The night is still. I stay there for another long minute, the weight of what just happened still sitting in my muscles, before I finally start walking again.
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