The Ride Home with Myron

Myron was a cool coworker I used to give a ride home to after work. Military guy. Around 5'9", Mexican, very much manly-man. And yes, I had a quiet little crush that I pretended was purely platonic.

He lived near me, shared one car with his wife, so the carpool made perfect logistical sense. Morally? A little murkier.

Our 45-minute rides turned into long, unfiltered conversations. Military stories. Relationships. Sex. Or more accurately, the lack of sex at home. He had three kids and absolutely no hesitation admitting he cheated on his wife. Zero shame. Just vibes.

In my head, I was tempted. Very tempted. But I kept it locked down. I wasn’t about to open that door, kick over my own common sense, and deal with the fallout. Some lines are fun to think about crossing. Better left uncrossed.

Corporate visited all the time, but this one was different. This was an overnight situation.

Everyone had to stay late to prep. No exceptions. That included Myron, who worked maintenance and suddenly found himself clocking hours well past the usual “I’m going home” window.

Myron rolls his shoulders, navy uniform shirt dark with drywall dust, military dog tags flashing. Green eyes catch mine across the desk as I throw my walkie-talkie into a charger. He nods, that quiet “ready when you are, boss”. I’m six-one in the manager polo, keys already swinging. Fluorescents die row by row in the building. It was after 3am when we both clocked out and made it to my car.

Tool bag thumps into my back seat, my tinted windows swallowing the sound. He exhales hard. “More rough shit tomorrow, kids already climbing my wife’s walls. Appreciate the ride, man.”

Smell of his day—sweat, machine oil, cologne fills the cabin before I even roll out.

Parkway Confessional

We slide onto the Parkway North, the road is quiet. The lights of the edge of the highway streak across the windshield like slow-motion sparks as we pass exit 131. He cracks the window two fingers, lights a Newport, drags deep.

“No pussy, bro,” he says, smoke curling out. “Weeks dry. Wife’s on that ‘headache, bills, kids’ shit. I’m watching porn every night just to sleep.” There is a pause. I’m caught off guard. Not sure what to say. He continues—" That’s why I cheat. I love pussy and my wife is being a bitch. Latinas getting split, you feel me? That grip, that slap-slap sound? Shit’s weak.”

My pulse ticks faster.  I’m uncomfortable but I manage to utter “What scene’s got you right now?” Gasping for air and swallowing between. We had talked about sex before but never this direct.

He thumbs his phone awake, holds it angled so only he sees. “A mami bent over a the back of pickup truck. Dude’s destroying her. She creams all over him. I nutted like crazy last night—woke up hard again. Ain’t had walls hug me like that since leave.”

Streetlight strobes his forearm, veins, flag tattoo, wedding ring glinting.

“You ever beat it in the car?” he asks, casual, but the green eyes cut sharp.

My mind is going crazy. My dick is bricking in my pants. What kind of question is that?

 "Maybe once,” I admit.

He laughs low, still looking at his phone. “Dangerous. Boss.”

I manage to say, “Have you?” 

My mind rushing…it’s so sexually charged.

We’re approaching exit 138 approaches. He shifts, knee bumping the console. “Pull over somewhere. Can’t walk in my house backed up, kids’ll tackle me before the door shuts, wife’s already texting ‘where you at?’ I need to nut now, wash face, then deal.”

My heart is pounding. What is happening here? I pull off the exit, pull into a lot of an office building and park at the end near some trees and the dumpster. No other cars are there. It’s nothing but darkness and I press the button for the ignition then kill the lights. 

It takes a couple seconds before they die down inside the car. The world shrinks to black glass and the tick of cooling engine.

Seats Back, Porn Up

We recline in tandem, seats groan back, cab widening into a low-lit lounge. Phone glows his face. “Wanna watch with me? Straight porn, man—nothing gay, just two dudes handling business.”

“Play it,” I say, throat dry. My heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. I’m shaking. Pre-cum flowing in my underwear and my dick is so fucking hard. I can’t believe this is happening.

He props the phone on the dash, left hand steady. Volume on high, moans leak: thick Latina on all fours on a truck bed, dude behind her, slapping skin echoing.

He palms his crotch through uniform pants, outlining fast-growing meat. “Look at that grip. See how she takes it? That’s what I miss. Wife used to cream like that.”

I adjust my own dick, trying to keep boss-cool.

The Whip-Out

He pops button, drags zipper—navy khakis open like curtains. Black boxer briefs tented, dark wet spot of pre blooming. He digs inside, lifts the beast: uncut, veins corded, shaft curved up angry, bush black against olive skin.

Shockwave. My stomach flips. The sight of his soldier-meat inches away hits like a drug. I wanted to suck it. A straight, married, uniformed—and I’m about to watch him lose it. Guilt flashes: power imbalance, job risk. Lust roars louder.

He spits in palm, starts slow. Skin sliding over glossy head, wet click every up-stroke. His dog tags jingle soft metallic beat as he is laser focused on the video.

Running Commentary

“Watch this part! Dude pulls out, slaps her clit, slides back in. She screams, man. Fuck…” His stroke speeds, elbow brushing mine. Breath fogs windshield.

On screen dude unloads—pull-out creampie dripping. Myron’s eyes glaze. “That’s what I need…tight, deep, warm wet pussy.”

My own dick throbs painful. I shove pants down to my knees past the steering wheel, my dick sprang free—longer, leaking. We’re mirror strokes now, shadows giant on tint. The car smells like dick and balls.

Emotional Crack

He mutters some shit, his pace rabid. “Barracks circle-jerks—eyes forward, no looks motherfucker. But this…” He glances my meat, back to porn, again to me—confession in green. “I’m broken man.”

“Let it break,” I growl. It’s raw emotion. A man being a man, being horny, being visceral. I spit in my hand and start stroking, it mixes with the pre cum and I’m sliding that hand up and down my meat.

He nods, strokes nastier—twist over head, thumb smearing pre webbing fingers.

Risk & Rhythm

Distant semi rolls past street. Headlights swipe fence in front of us. We freeze, dicks pulsing upright, cum-loaded. Truck gone, he picks back up, harder.

“Close,” he hisses. “Look at me when I nut—”

The Blast

He erupts guttural—“Fuuuck, take it BITCH!” Hips lift off seat, fist a blur. First rope arcs high, splatters the side of the door, trails down past the arm rest; second/third hose the gray wife beater under his unbuttoned uniform shirt, pooling abs valleys; fourth crosses space, hot slap on his pants; fifth-sixth coat his fist, bush, seat leather. Meat keeps burping slow globs, reek filling cabin—salty, bleach, alive. I’m watching him, watching his body fall back into the chair, his cum face as every drop cums out of him. It makes me harder.

I detonate next—ropes lash stomach, one fat glob on my fingers, cum-thick and dripping. Excess rivers balls, drips leather.

Post-Nut Bond

Panting haze. Phone auto-pauses behind cum-smeared glass.

He laughs breathless, wipes chin with backhand. “You straight? Sorry man… but fuck, I needed that.”

I nod “yes.”

He takes his wet cummed on t-shirt off and finishes wiping himself and then throws it at me. We hold eye contact for a second. 

“Clean up.” He says.

“This stays between us, boss.”

“Between us,” I echo.

We fist-bump over the stickiness, knuckles glide, shared mess sealing the pact.

I pull up my pants and underwear, and he does the same, making sure there is no evidence before he gets home. I get back off the parkway still thinking about what happened. My dick still semi hard. I pull off our exit and in front of his house.

Door cracks night. Tags clink fade. Cum ghosts linger. He gets out. “Thanks for the ride.”

I get home, fall into bed and beat my dick again thinking about what just happened.

We never did that again. Eventually he moved away and is still with his wife to this day. But what a night.