Delivery route detour: Breaking in a married man

The tension had been building for months—ever since Carlos, the “straight” married dude with two kids, started riding shotgun on my delivery route. Always cracking jokes, flexing his arms after lifting boxes, “accidentally” brushing against me in the truck. Fuck, even the way he’d lick his lips when he talked pissed me off—because it made me hard.

Then came that rainy Tuesday. Our van blew a tire near some shitty motel off Route 9. One room left. One bed. And Carlos, all nervous laughter, cracking open a six-pack like it’d save him from what we both knew was coming.

“Man, relax,” I said, tossing my jacket on the chair. “Ain’t like I’m gonna bite.”

He chuckled, but his eyes dipped to my crotch. Bingo.

Three beers in, he “slipped” onto the bed next to me, his thigh pressing against mine. I didn’t move. Let him sweat. Then—his hand, shaky, grazing my knee. “Leo, I… fuck, man, I dunno what’s wrong with me.”

I smirked. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong. Just finally bein’ honest.”

His breath hitched when I palmed his dick through his jeans. Already hard. “Wife don’t do it for you like this, huh?” I murmured, squeezing.

Carlos groaned, hips jerking. “Jesus—”

“Nah, just Leo.”

Then it was a blur: his belt clinking, my mouth on his cock, him muttering “shit, shit” between gasps. I sucked him deep, throat working, until he yanked me up by my hair. “I wanna… fuck. Can I—?”

I didn’t let him finish. Just turned around, dropped my jeans, and spit in my hand. “Lube up, papi. Don’t gotta be gentle.”

He fumbled with the condom, hands shaking. I almost laughed—big, tough Carlos, nervous as a virgin. Then his dick pressed against my ass, and fuck, the burn was unreal. He wasn’t slick, wasn’t smooth—just shoved in like he was claiming territory.

“Coño! Easy—” I gritted out.

“Sorry, I just—fuck, you’re tight—”

I braced against the headboard as he started pumping, rough and uneven. Pain melted into pleasure when he grazed my prostate, lighting me up like a fucking firework. “Right there, yes—”

Carlos lost it then. His thrusts turned brutal, hips slamming into me, the bed screeching. His hand fisted in my hair, pulling my head back. “You like this? Huh? Takin’ my dick like a—fuck—like a slut?”

I moaned, leaking onto the sheets. “Yeah, papi, wreck me—”

He came with a growl, collapsing on top of me. We were both sweating, breathing like we’d run a marathon. Then, quiet. Just the AC buzzing and Carlos’s shaky exhale. “…My wife can’t know.”

I rolled over, grinning. “Who’s gonna tell her? Besides…” I grabbed his hand, pressed it to my hard cock. “We ain’t done yet.”

By dawn, we’d gone three rounds—him fucking me, me riding him, him on his knees begging for my dick. The kicker? As we loaded the repaired van, Carlos “accidentally” brushed against me again.

“Next time,” he muttered, “we skip the motel.”