Imagine this...
A guy sits on the hood of his car. You can see the back of his head over the roof as you approach from the rear. And as you get closer, you can see the guy’s head is thrown back slightly, tilted towards the sun. In the distance, heather stretches out, split by a thin ribbon of deserted grey road. The world is silent.
You get closer to the car, and oh - it quickly becomes apparent that the man is lost in something; thought, perhaps, and the question of what he’s imagining is an enticing subject, for his left hand is thrust down the waistband of his combats and is slowly and repetitively moving within. As you watch, frozen into immobility by the sight, he leans back on the windshield, his open shirt falling back behind him, and pushes his hips forward to facilitate the rough tugging down of his pants. A fuzz of hair appears first, closely followed by a fat length, engorged and hard. It is stretched parallel to his thighs by the waistband initially, continuing for a not inconsiderable length before finally snapping free of the restriction and bobbing to make a perfect 90° with his balls. There is a gentle curve to the length which is of uniform thickness until about an inch from the end where it swells out into a classic bell shape, the leading edge forming an enticing ridge in the upper surface of the foreskin. Your mind dwells on this for a moment, imagining the hidden treasure, hot and swollen, a ripe plum; imagining the moment of revelation as his fingers tenderly draw back the skin on this prime example of manhood. Even as you unzip your own fly and work your own stiffened prick free of its metal teeth, the man’s fingers are drawing back the smooth foreskin and moistening the warm flesh with the bead of clear fluid that forms at the tip. He slides his forefinger slowly along the underside, drawing more fluid forth which he once again uses to lubricate the full length of this beautiful flesh.
You can stand it no longer, however, and make for the car, and yet in those six steps the man has already drawn his knees up, futilely attempting with both hands to cover his naked erection and is stammering ridiculous excuses. And yet how suddenly he stops when you push both his hands away and stroke between his legs with a gentle urgency. He is unsure at first, it’s clear on his face, and yet though his knees are still drawn up his hands fall to his sides and after a little time he makes no resistance when you push his knees apart and begin to kiss his inner thighs. There’s so much to do, you can hardly decide where to start. Scrambling up onto the bonnet of the car, kneeling astride his legs, you grasp his head and gently pull his mouth down onto your own cock, unbuttoning your shirt and removing it; its swift fall to the ground soon followed by the rest of your clothing - sneakers kicked off, jeans unfastened and tugged down to your knees. The man’s earlier reticence was clearly composed mainly of surprise, for he continues to lick and suck at your cock even as you reach behind and rub the head of his penis across the back of your thighs.
Not wishing to come in his mouth you gently pull his head away from your cock and kiss him deeply, finding a purchase with your toes curled round the front bumper, secure enough that you can work your way down his body. Yet you don’t want to stop at that beautiful cock; you might hold it in your lips for a while, might push your lips down to the black hairs of the root but no - he won’t be allowed to come; you’re going to turn him around and he’s going to let you pump deep between his buttocks, making it somehow tender and respectful, however sweaty and grit-covered you both end up. Then, and only then, he’ll lick the sticky marks that he's left on the hood of the car while you lean on the bumper and let him make thrust after frantic thrust into your throat. And you’ll swallow every drop of his come, just as he’s accepted every last drop of yours.
Imagine this...