Sam stood at the mouth of the alley, heart thumping harder than he liked to admit. The dim orange glow of a broken streetlamp flickered overhead, casting uneasy shadows across the wet concrete. The city buzzed behind him--cars, voices, the faint thrum of music leaking from somewhere he couldn't see--but this alley was quieter. Quieter and darker.
He remembered the last time like a pulse behind his eyes: their strong hands, the way they made him feel small and filthy and treasured all at once. Two men--tall, broad, Black, and confident--who had dragged him into the shadows and given him the best night of his life.
Now he was back.
Same ratty hoodie, same trembling anticipation. He glanced down the alley. Empty. No sign of them. His stomach twisted with disappointment, but part of him still hoped. Maybe if he waited. Maybe if he looked the way he had that night--nervous, needy, aching--they might appear again.
He stepped in.
He took a few hesitant steps into the alley, shoes crunching softly on broken glass. The air smelled like old oil, piss, and something sweet and rotten. Trash was piled along the walls--black bags split open, soggy cardboard, bits of broken wood leaning like jagged bones. A pair of battered dumpsters loomed ahead, their rusted sides slick with something unidentifiable.
"Hello?" he called out, voice barely louder than a whisper. It bounced back to him, empty and flat.
Nothing.
Sam lingered anyway, wrapping his arms around himself against the chill. The city kept moving somewhere far behind him, but this alley felt forgotten--like time pooled here in dirty puddles and left you waiting. Hoping.
He shifted from foot to foot, glanced toward the street, then back into the gloom. Maybe they weren't coming. Maybe it was stupid to think they would.
But he stayed.
Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Maybe more. His thighs were starting to ache from standing, his breath clouded faintly in the air, and still--nothing.
He sighed and leaned against the wall, the brick cool against his back. His skin prickled with a strange mixture of regret and defiance. He wanted to leave.
But he wanted them more.
His online fantasies had become real and once wasn't enough.
It took him weeks for his body to heal from the rough fucking the pair had given him but as the wounds heals and his body became wall again so did the growing sensation of more black dick.
Instinctively his tiny three inch hard dick pulsed in his pants at the mere idea.
After two hours--of pacing, waiting, listening to every distant footstep with his heart in his throat--there was still nothing.
No voices.
No shadows.
No strong hands pulling him into darkness.
Just the cold. Just the stink. Just disappointment tightening in his chest like a fist.
Sam finally gave up.
He sighed, rubbed his arms, and trudged back to his car, the high from his memory now dull and heavy inside him. The street was even emptier than before. He unlocked the door, slid into the seat, and shut the world out with a soft click.
For a moment, he just sat there. Staring at the wheel. Wishing the night had gone differently. Wishing they had come back for him.
He turned the key. The engine rumbled to life. Headlights lit the alley's entrance, making it look even more desolate.
He didn't drive away right away.
One more glance. One more second.
But nothing moved. No miracles.
With a quiet breath through his nose, he pulled out, tires crunching the curb as he turned down the street. Home was thirty minutes away, but it felt like a lifetime from what he wanted.
The city lights blurred past his windows, neon smears in the darkness as Sam drove. One hand on the wheel, the other resting in his lap, fingers twitching with nerves he couldn't shake.
His mind drifted--inevitably--back to that night.
It had been dangerous. Stupid, even. He didn't know their names. Had barely seen their faces. He remembered one had a gold tooth that flashed when he smiled. The other had hands so big they wrapped completely around Sam's hips when he was bent over.
He had been scared.
Not just nervous--scared.
Heart hammering, knees shaking, part of him certain he was in over his head. Two big strangers in a shadowed alley, pulling him close, murmuring filthy promises in deep, amused voices.
He tried to run but...
The way they touched him--rough but sure, mouths hot against his neck, bodies pressing him against the wall like they owned him. His own gasps and screams had echoed off the bricks. The sound of his skin slapping against theirs, the way his legs had trembled after--he could feel it still.
Sam could feel his pathetic dick pressing against the fabric of his pants. With two fingers he reached inside and tugged at the shriveled bump of skin.
How many times had her jerked off after being raped by those men? He'd lost count.
He'd told whiteboywife, on Twitter friend about it afterward, too. That long, fevered message at 3 a.m., fingers flying over his keyboard while he was still leaking, bleeding, still aching.
The online stranger just laughed. Of course he did. No one did anything but laugh at him. What else could they do? With his frail body and tiny dick he wasn't good for much else.
A dull ache bloomed in his lower belly--familiar, urgent. At first he thought he was about to cum but then he realized he had to piss.
He almost laughed to himself. At this point his cum was so watered down it might as well have been piss.
"Shit," Sam muttered, shifting in his seat. He hadn't noticed it while he was standing there, adrenaline buzzing, mind elsewhere. But now, halfway home and finally coming down, he realized just how badly he needed to piss.
He spotted a faded blue rest stop sign and veered off the highway, tires crunching over gravel as he pulled into a nearly deserted lot.
The clock on Sam's dashboard glowed 12:32 a.m.
Half an hour past midnight. The highway behind him was quiet now, the occasional pair of headlights gliding by like ghosts on black water.
He pulled into the lot of the rest stop, tires crunching over loose gravel and potholes edged in oily puddles. The building ahead was squat and ugly, all concrete block and faded paint, with a warped tin awning barely hanging on. One buzzing overhead light swung gently in the wind, casting long, stuttering shadows.
It looked like the kind of place that hadn't been properly cleaned in years.
There were two other cars--old, beat-up things with dark windows--and three long semi trucks parked further off, engines silent, sleeping drivers likely dozing inside the cabs. One of the trucks had graffiti scrawled across its trailer. Another had a flat tire and looked abandoned.
A vending machine blinked red out front, though half its buttons were cracked or missing. A faded "MEN" sign pointed to the left side of the building, the letters nearly rubbed away.
Sam cut the engine. The night was cold and quiet. The only sound was the wind and the distant hum of highway traffic, miles off now.
He sat there a moment longer, then stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching under his sneakers. The air smelled like diesel, grease, and wet asphalt. Somewhere nearby, something was leaking--a steady drip, drip, drip into a puddle that shimmered faintly in the sickly light.
The place reeked of neglect. But something about it made Sam's pulse tick up again.
There was something raw about a place like this.
Something that made the world feel looser.
Dirtier.
Open to possibility.
Sam pushed open the creaky metal door and stepped inside. The smell hit him immediately--stale urine, mold, and something sharp and sour that made his nose wrinkle. The flickering fluorescent light above cast uneven shadows across cracked tile walls and a floor sticky with grime.
He glanced toward the row of urinals. One was chipped and stained; the other looked as though it hadn't been flushed in days.
He hesitated. He knew his dick wouldn't reach far enough past his pants to piss. It was a common situation.
Instead, he moved to the stalls--hoping for a break in luck.
