I recently wrote a story called "The Surprise" - a non-consensual story with a twist. I deliberately picked a vague title, and so I will try and write a different tale under each of Literotica's twenty-five writing categories with the same inspiration over the next year. This is Number Three.
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I've always enjoyed cycling. It's good exercise, and it gives me a few hours away from my family. My wife attends her bridge evening on Tuesday nights and has a ladies' night most Friday. While she is away, I look after our children. On Sundays, when the weather is suitable, I explore the countryside near my home on my road bike. I take a picnic, some water, and can easily ride fifty kilometres or more, sometimes stopping for an ice cream or coffee en route.
It was on one such ride, where I ventured north, rather than my usual routes, when my life changed. The day was warm but not hot, and I took roads I didn't know, venturing into a town I'd never been to before. It would be my longest journey for years, but the country lanes were free of traffic, and the undulating route made for an enjoyable excursion.
Forty kilometres into my trip, I felt hunger pangs, and stopped by the side of the road to check the mapping app on my phone. The nearest rest area was less than two kilometres away on the dual carriageway, outside of the town. The alternative was a supermarket or chain cafe, and on a warm summer's day, I preferred to eat outdoors. The layby and small triangular woodland, bordered by a main trunk route and two railway lines, looked ideal. I tentatively cycled to the end of the country lane and saw the entrance to the destination from the T-Junction.
With a gap in the traffic, I joined the 50mph bypass for a few hundred metres and pulled into the layby, shielded from the road by trees. The map had said there were toilets, a mobile cafe and picnic benches, but the facilities were boarded up and closed. Doubtless, a victim of CoVID.
In the long layby, over a dozen cars and two lorries were parked, and I expected the rest area to be bulging with families, but there was no-one using the tables. I didn't think much of it, and stopped my bike by the side of the picnic table, took my water bottle and lunch from the pannier, and ate. I studied the mapping app, slightly impressed by how far I'd come. I heard a couple of cars leave the layby and the constant whizz of vehicles speeding past us, on the other side of three hedges.
I did not pay attention; it had been four hours since I had eaten and two hours since I had left home. I downed my water, stretched my legs and wheeled my bike to the trees, propping it against a bush at the entrance to one of the rough paths through the small patch of woodland; I needed a leak. The moment I stepped around the corner, I removed from my arms from my cycling lycra and pushed my bib to my waist. I was not alone. Through the trees, I saw a naked man, no older than twenty-five, a few metres from me, as I held my cock in my hand.
I looked away, pointing my dick at the shrubbery, and released my bladder. But I recognised those sounds. Grunting, groaning, squealing. Sticks and twigs breaking as people stepped on them. Shaking bushes. I watered the blackberry plant to the soundtrack of sex.
And when I finished urinating, my curiosity piqued, and I peered around the bush; I was not the only voyeur. Three guys of various states of undress watched as two young men fucked. I was the fourth peeping tom. I had never seen anything so sordid and erotic in my life.
The couple adored their audience; they glanced at their swelling crowd. The top, a muscular, beefy guy with two arms and a body covered in tattoos, pounded into the young hairless gym rat, with a six-pack and well-defined torso. His rhythm was strangely hypnotic and my cock stiffened against my lycra bib shorts.
My fellow spectators casually masturbated to the sight before them, but I was frozen, spellbound, and entranced by the indecent public acts. Had I stumbled across an impromptu orgy or an agreed meet? Was this a dogging spot?
I felt I should leave, but couldn't tear my eyes away from the show.
The sex. The gay sex.
But I was straight; I had never watched any homosexual pornography or entertained any such thoughts. I loved my wife and adored her smooth flesh. I lusted after breasts and pussies, longing to feast on her clit and screw her enticing body. However, I could not deny my sexual reaction to the sight before me. Watching the muscular beast sodomise the young twink had made my cock hard.
With a violent thrust, the beefcake plunged his dick into his partner and grunted, filling his rectum with his seed. He sighed, withdrew and squeezed his cock, milking the last of his cum onto the back of the young man. "He's all yours," he announced, as he pulled his shorts to his waist and stepped away.
Another took his place. No words uttered, no exchange of names or pleasantries. An overweight middle-aged man waddled forwards with his underpants between his thighs, held his hard dick and pushed it into the glistening hole. He grunted as he hammered in to and out of the shaven-headed, naked young man.
More voyeurs and men arrived as a train arrowed past the wood at breakneck speed; this splash of trees was nothing but a blur to them, and we were well hidden by the bushes and shrubs. But if they knew what sordid adventures were unfolding behind our green curtain, the passengers would be shocked.
Two guys walked through the woodland from the layby, followed by another completely nude dude, holding a bag. The latter stopped beside a tree stump, bending over to show his hole to the group of wanking onlookers. His hands parted, and he removed a jewelled butt plug from his anus. He dropped the sex toy into his hessian bag and swapped it for a red blindfold that he slipped over his eyes. His forearms rested on the fallen oak.
Waiting to be taken. I'd not seen anything quite so erotic in my life; he would have no idea who had plundered him. Transfixed, I watched a hairy, overweight guy stick his cock into the middle-aged blindfolded slut, itching for sex.
Within twenty metres of me, there were four wanking men and two pairs of anonymous sodomy. The grunting and groaning were audible. The slapping of flesh against flesh, thighs against thighs, palms against buttocks, was arousing. Snatched words of degradation were intoxicating and humiliating; my arousal tented my lycra shorts as the two men came inside their partners.
And were replaced.
The bottoms came to get constantly buggered and sodomised. The pair came to be taken advantage of, to have their holes stretched and roughly filled with thick, meaty pricks. No mercy requested or given. The tops hammered their cocks into the willing sluts and I saw pre-cum leak from the young twink's dick; the viscous liquid splattered against his naked thighs as his body moved.
I made eye contact with the gym rat, and when his latest partner finished with him, he stood up, stretching his muscles. "Gets stiff after half-an-hour," he said. "You come for a fuck?"
"I'm married."
"I'm engaged. Do you want to fuck me?" The young man grinned, glancing at the voyeurs. I saw the remnants of the previous grouping - those who had stayed after emptying their bollocks - expecting me to take him up on his offer. It was the dirtiest, sexiest proposition in my life. A gym rat, muscled in all the right areas, had offered me anal sex.
My wife of eight years didn't allow me to screw her up the tailpipe. No girlfriend had ever proposed anal sex to me. Yet, this sexy, alluring man had done so. And he didn't even know my name.
