I had already been in Madrid a couple days, heading south to the much cheaper Costa del Sol, the Mediterranean coast to spend some of the winter months. I was young, travelling on a shoestring budget, in the days when "Europe on $5 a Day" was already a bygone fantasy, but when one could still get by on $15 a day with a little effort and a little economy.

One of those little economies was in staying at a Government-run hostel in Central Madrid on one of the small one-way streets that branched off to the north from Calle Gran Via, one of the main shopping streets of Madrid.

The hostel was little more than a flop-house run by real martinets, a husband and wife team of Franco bureaucrats. But it was cheap, and it did supply a breakfast of orange juice, café con leche, cold hard-boiled eggs, and all the buttered toast you could eat. In return you got to help with the dishes and fold the (unwashed) sheets and blankets on the vacated beds, ready for the next occupants.

I stayed away from the place as long as I possibly could each day, mostly wandering the streets and taking in the atmosphere of my first Spanish city. Of course, I did the tourist things, such as visiting the Prado, the world famous art museum. In fact, I went a couple of times, not only because it was so good, but also because it had an excellent and cheap cafeteria.

And, of course, I had to visit the statue of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the Plaza de España. at the western end of the Gran Via.

But I had not yet seen a bullfight, and as much as I detested the idea of such a bloodsport, I still had the notion that I must do this if I really wanted to know Spain.

So it was, that on hot Sunday afternoon, when most businesses were closed anyway, I had lunch at one of the cafes open on Gran Via and set off down the hill to where I knew there was a government-run ticket agent for the bullfights. I had been told by others that I should buy my ticket ahead of time, instead of at the stadium with its long lines which were usually ignored and which degenerated into shoving and brawls between Spanish men trying to buy last-minute tickets.

The narrow street I was on was even more deserted than usual. Apart from it being a Sunday, it was now siesta time, that period when all businesses close from 1 or 2 pm until about 4 pm. Supposedly, everyone is taking a nap, but more likely just getting out of the heat, but whatever they are doing, the narrow, one-way street was totally empty of people - except for me and a young lustrabotas, a shoe-shine boy. They are all over the city, young men usually, with an oblong wooden basket with their tools of trade inside and with a footrest for the customer to place his foot while the boy polishes his shoes.

This one was hardly a boy, probably 24 or 25, about my own age. He was swarthily handsome, with close-cropped hair and a dark stubble on his face and chin - not quite enough to call it a beard. I also noticed he had another basket - a very noticeable one - in his jeans. He was plodding up the hill as I walked down. We came face to face. He was wearing a tight, blue-and-white-striped crew-neck T-shirt to show off his abs and pecs, and tight blue jeans to show off his crotch muscle. He certainly was a hottie! Just about as hot as this narrow way which captured the heat of this late September afternoon and intensified it.

"Eh senor, shine your shoes, eh?" he asked. "Muy dirty." Considering I was wearing beat-up runners, it was an odd request.

"No, no," I said. "No polish. Not leather."

"Si, si," he replied. "Very much dust. I will wipe clean. Very cheap."

"No thank you," I objected.

"Si, si," he again insisted, " I clean. Very cheap. I must earn money for my family. They are hungry. Business not good today." He gestured at the hot, empty street.

I am a sucker for a sob-story - and a pretty face and a bulging crotch. "¿Cuánto dinero?" I asked. "How much ?"

"Fifty pesetas," he was quick to reply. Usually these street peddlars expect you to haggle them down, but fifty pesetas was at the time about eighty cents. I could afford to be generous. After all, a packet of British Rothmans was only about 12 cents. And I knew I had at least one 50 peseta coin in my pockets.

"OK," I agreed and he immediately dropped to his knees on the sidewalk in front of me. My first thought was, 'Oh boy, wouldn't it be great if he was on his l knees to suck me off!' I got a bit of a woody right then and there.

The shoe-shine boy pulled a dirty rag from his wooden box. He went through the motions of brushing dust and dirt from my beat-up runners, then, quite out of the blue, he reached up and grasped my cock through the cloth of my jeans. He gave it a squeeze.

"You want I suck your cock?" he said, looking up at me with a big friendly grin on his face. "I give good blow-job. Just one hundred pesetas."

I was a bit incredulous at first, but what the hell, a blow-job from a hottie for a buck and a quarter?

"Sure," I said, breathlessly.

"OK," he said. "But not out here. We move into the doorway." There was a recessed doorway to a closed store right alongside us. He stood, and we moved into the recess. I was backed against the door of the store, and he was shielding me from the street.

"You pay me first," he demanded.

I was horny. I was stupid. I was horny and stupid. I pulled out my wallet from my jeans pocket and opened it, pulling out a hundred peseta bill for the BJ, and a fifty peseta coin from my pocket for the shoe wipe.. I offered the money to the boy.

"No!" he said. "Give me all!

"But you said ..." I began to object.

His tone was threatening now "Give me all!" he demanded.

"But ..." I was scared by now. He had me blocked in against the door.

"All," he demanded once more. The friendly grin was gone now.

"The police ..." I started to say.

"Policías never come here," he informed me. "They are too lazy to walk up the hill.

And suddenly there was a flick-knife in his had. Now he was really menacing.

I started to say something more, but his hand flashed out. I felt a light touch on my cheek. I put my hand to the spot. When I drew it away, there was blood.

"It is nothing," he said. "Just a scratch ... this time ..."

Chicken shit that I am, I got the point — literally and figuratively. I handed the boy my wallet, really shaking at the thought of that razor-sharp knife.

The Spaniard flicked through my wallet. He took all the money, about twenty or thirty dollars. I made a point of not carrying a large amount of cash when travelling. But it was two days of my $15 a day budget. And it was enough to satisfy him. Apparently the rest of the stuff in my wallet and the few coins in my pocket were no use to him. He threw the wallet at my feet.

"You will pick it up when I am gone," he said. "You will wait here five minutes. If you move before then, I will know, and I will come back and cut your throat!" he threatened. Oddly, I didn't think too much about the threat, but more about the fact that his English seemed to have improved since he first spoke to me.

Then he was gone, taking his basket and my cash with him.

I didn't wait five minutes. I did wait a couple of minutes, though. I didn't want to run into him again too soon.

I mopped at my face with a handkerchief, but it had already stopped bleeding, although I have a thin half-inch scar there to this day.

But what do do about it? It was true that one never saw policís in these side streets. And what would I tell them? That I was trying to get a blow-job from a street pedlar?

So, feeling like a complete idiot and a sucker, I mentally kicked myself for my stupidity, and carried on down the hill to another main thoroughfare where I knew the ticket office was. I still had my travellers' cheques safe in a money belt under my shirt.

The State-run ticket center was an open store-front affair on the Calle Mayor. It not only sold tickets for the bullfights, it also sold tickets for boxing, wrestling, and the opera. It also sold lottery tickets. On this afternoon the big sellers were the bullfights tickets. From what the English speaking ticket seller told me, I was going to be privileged today to see one of Spain's greatest matadors in action. The name meant nothing to me then, and in the years gone by, I have forgotten what it was.

I managed to buy my tickets with my travellers' cheques no problem, although I did get ripped off on the exchange rate a little. There were a couple of pistol-totingpolicías on duty at the ticket office. Apparently there was a lot of dinero passed through there in a day, so there were always a pair of policemen on duty. However they completely disregarded the numerous illegal ticket scalpers, both outside and right inside the ticket office. I guess there were kick-backs along the line somewhere. I wouldn't have been surprised if even guys like my shoe-shine boy paid kick-backs to the policía.

I bought the cheapest ticket I could, high up in the open stands, en el sol - in the sun - much cheaper than la sombra - in the shade. I didn't mind a little sun.

That said, the afternoon was getting very hot, and the Plaza del Toros did not open until 5 pm, with the bullfights starting at 6, so I took myself to the shady walks of a nearby park, the Parque del Retiro, with a lake right in its middle and spent a pleasant afternoon watching rowers in rented boats on the lake.

Taking the subway, I got to the Plaza del Toros Las Ventas not long before start time for the fights. Hundreds of Spaniards, mostly men, were flooding in to the huge stadium, many pushing and shoving to try to fight their way to the best seats in their allotted areas. My area was high up in the back of the unroofed portion of the stadium, in fact, i I finally found a seat with my back to the wall of the reserved, covered boxes behind me.

I can't say that I enjoyed the bullfights. For one, it was hard to see anything well from my remote vantage point. Second, most of the working-class Spanish men around me were already half drunk, and were getting even more so, swigging down wine or beer, and getting into shouting matches with each other , and even fist-fights.

Finally, there was the bullfighting itself. It seemed to me nothing more than a sadistic way to torment proud animals to death. Yes, the matadors did show great grace, and courage, and skill in facing the angry bull, but only after it had been tormented and pierced by the lances of the picadors and the toreadors. At least the crowd had the good taste to boo when a novice matador did not kill the bull cleanly with one thrust, but had to stab it with his sword three times before finding its heart.

And then the final indignity for the dead bull - to be dragged out of the arena by a team of horses, leaving only a black trail of blood in the sand. It didn't lessen my revulsion any by knowing that the meat from the slaughtered bulls was given to hospitals and orphanages and missions to the poor.

Last, there was the heat. The late afternoon sun was pounding down on the area where I was seated, and the heat was trapped by the circular structure of the stadium. Even I, bought up in a hot climate, was feeling the heat.

And maybe there was also the 26 ounce bottle of cheap warm beer I had downed, bought from a vendor in the park …

Anyway, all these things drove me from the arena well before the final bullfight, so I never did get to see Spain's greatest matador, whoever he was.

Once outside, where a bit of a breeze and the lengthening afternoon shadows gave some relief from the heat, I felt a lot better. I decided to go back to the ticket office where I had bought my tickets for the bullfights. I had noticed while I was there that they had posters for today's fights for sale cheap. One of those would look good on my walls back home, and I could mail it quite cheaply.

The ticket office was still open, doing a thriving business in lottery tickets, which the Spanish are quite addicted to.

I bought my poster, and was about to leave the open-front shop. There were two policías standing against one of the counters which lined the three walls of the store. They were chatting and eyeing the customers while one of them was getting his shoes shined. I moved round them to get a better look at the shoe-shine boy. Yes, it was the boy who had robbed me!

I had him dead-to-rights. Even if the policías didn't speak English, the ticket salesman who had told me about the great matador was still on duty. He spoke perfect English. He could translate for me.

And the shoe-shine boy could go nowhere. There were two cops and me between him and the street, pistols holstered at their hips.

As I was mulling what action to take, the shoe-shine boy looked up and saw me staring at him. He recognized me immediately. I could see him also weighing up his situation. He realized he was trapped.

The two policía were still chatting, completely oblivious of the silent drama going on between me and the lustrabotas.

The young man's eyes widened. Still on his knees, he stopped polishing and put on a sorrowful, pleading face. He even went so far as to put his hands together as in prayer, and bring them to his lips, beseechingly, bowing his head to me.

It was all up to me. I could have him arrested right now. Or I could walk away.

Maybe I'm too soft-hearted, or maybe, as I've said before, I am just a chicken-shit, but I chose to walk away. Let the kid live his life! I gave him the slightest nod before I turned away. I saw the relief flood his face, and he blew me a silent kiss of thanks.

Feeling like a feeble fool, I walked out of the ticket shop, holding my rolled up poster in its cardboard tube, and headed back toward my hostel through the spanish men loitering around the shop.

I had only gone a few yards before I heard running feet behind me, and heard "Gracias! Gracias! Gracias!" at my shoulder. It was the shoe-shine boy. He must have finished off with the policía right smart, and now he was walking alongside me, thanking me over and over. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" he cried. "I love you!" Maybe his English wasn't so good after all.

I walked faster to get away from him, but he trotted alongside me, toting his shoe-shine box. I felt like beating him around the head with my poster. Other men eyed us curiously, no doubt wondering what was going on, presuming that he was hustling me for something.

"I will do anything for you - anything you want, my hero, my saviour," he persisted as we hurried along.

"Then how about giving me my money back?" I suggested.

"Si, si!" he agreed, and pulled out a wad of notes from his pocket and thrust them at me. I took them, straightened then, counted them, and put them back in my wallet. It was not quite as much as what he had taken, but it was better than nothing.

I thought he would go away then, but he continued to trot along beside me.

"You are my hero," he said. "I will repay you more. I will give you the blow-job. I will suck your cock, no charge."

The offer sounded good. He was a handsome young man, and had a lovely package in his jeans. I would be more than willing to suck whatever was hiding behind his fly.

"You are not trying to rob me again, are you?" I asked.

"No, no," he insisted. "You saved my life. You did not report me. I owe you everything. We will go to your hotel. I will come to your room. I will suck you. You can fuck me."

The offer was sounding better and better. It was too good to pass up. But the hostel was out of the question.

"I do not have a private room," I told him. "I am staying in a hostel."

"Ah," he said knowingly and disappointed. Then he bucked up. "Ah," he cried. "I know a place. Very close. We will go there. Come!" and he set out ahead, beckoning me to follow. A little skeptically, ready to run if necessary, I did.

He led me off the main street into the side streets, mostly older 2 and 3 storey residential buildings. We rounded a couple of corners, and there, in the middle of the block, deserted now for meal time, for it was now about 7:30 in the evening, though still quite bright, was a space between two buildings, closed off by an 8 foot high stone wall with a locked iron gate in the middle. Beyond the gate I could see a small gardens.

The gate was locked, but that didn't stop my new friend. He took some sort of tool from his shoe-box, jiggled it in the lock for a few seconds, and swung the gate open, beckoning me inside. I was a bit hesitant to enter, but the delighted look on his face, as if happy to be showing me some wondrous secret place, convinced me. I stepped through the gate, and the boy closed it behind us.

We were in a private gardens, a tiny park-like setting, hidden away from public view, and accessible normally only to local residents each of whom had a key. I had seen such private gardens all over e England and Europe.

No windows looked down onto the garden from the adjoining buildings. The little park was only about 30 feet wide and maybe 70 feet deep. It was mostly lawn, with a brick path down the center, a couple of park benches, and a few flowering shrubs scattered throughout. Right in the middle of the path, halfway along, was a small stone fountain topped by a figurine which spouted water.

My guide led me off to one side, beside the front wall, where we could not be seen through the gate from the street.

"I am so hot," he said, putting down his shoe-basket and shedding his t-shirt. I wasn't sure whether he was talking about the heat of the evening or his sexual condition.

"I am Polly," he informed me. I was a little confused by this, and must have showed it. "Paolo," he added. "My name is Paolo — Polly."

Now I got it. His name was Paolo, called Polly by his friends - although Polly was pronounced more like Pawley or Pohley. The closest I can get is Paulie, so that is what I will call him.

Quite unexpectedly, he pulled me to him and kissed me. "Gracias once more, my hero," he whispered.

I put my hands on his chest, feeling his bulging pecs with their light hair, and ran then down his tight abs, following his lightly defined treasure-trail. I groped for his crotch, and felt his cock through the thick denim. It was already swollen. It was a brass-button fly, and I had some trouble undoing it, but Paulie stopped me and did it for me. His large cock popped out and waved invitingly.

I know it was me who was supposed to be getting blown, but I couldn't resist. I immediately dropped to my knees and took the knob into my mouth.

"Ah, si, si!" Paulie whispered. "muy bueno!" I pushed back his foreskin with my teeth and could smell and taste the day's collected head-cheese which had been trapped there. It was a taste and smell which I found extremely heady and exciting. He began to bump and grind his hips, fucking my face.

I would have loved to have had him blast his load into my mouth, swallowing every drop of his delicious cum, but for now I was content to have his cock pounding at the back of my throat.

"All the days, I am on my knees," he laughed. "Now is your turn!" He was not gloating, just appreciating.

His flesh glowed golden in the evening sun, like some Mediterranean god of richness and fertility. Forgotten was our previous encounter. All I was interested in now was this delicious sex with him.

Soon he pulled his cock from my eager lips, and lifted me by the ears to make me stand.

"Take off the clothes," he ordered. "No-one will see. No-one will see. We get naked." We both stripped right down, discarding our clothes with my poster and his shoe-box where we had discarded them. Both of us had hard, erect penises. I even added my money belt with little concern. Sex was the all-important thing right now.

Paulie Grasped both our cocks in one hand and held them together, masturbating them both at the same time. He was fascinated with the whiteness of mine alongside the darkness of his. He tried to dock with me, but both knobs were large and our foreskins were too tight and too short for that.

"Sit," the Spanish boy ordered. "Now I suck you carajo - your cock." There was a stone bench along the wall, and another free-standing one right beside us. I sat down onto this and Paulie dropped to his knees on the lawn before me.

He opened his mouth and bent over my rod, taking e the end in with one gulp, then he began to drive me crazy, running his mouth and lips up and down the entire length.

Paulie was an expert cock-sucker. He knew how to use his lips and his tongue to the greatest effect, and his throat easily accommodated the length and thickness of my cock. Again and again he pushed his face right into my groin, taking all of my cock into him without choking or gagging.

Paulie kept at it, bringing me to the edge again and again, but sensing when to stop. I was ready to scream.

At last he withdrew his face from my crotch and looked up at me. "You want fuck?" he asked.

"Yes," I gasped. "You fuck me." I wanted his long, thick dick inside me. I knelt on hands and knees on the well-kept lawn beside the wall and one of the well-trimmed shrubs. Paulie straddled me. I heard him spitting on his hands and felt him rubbing spittle into my crack and hole. Then he spat some more, and I presume he was lubricating his cock.

He tried to enter me, but my hole was too tight, his cock was too thick, and the spittle had dried already in the evening heat.

"Haha!" he cried as an idea came to me. He had me kneel upright. He reached round from behind me, grasped my stiff rod, and began to masturbate me rapidly with great expertise. My body responded quickly. Within a couple of minutes I was spurting cum into his waiting hand, nice slimy, slippery cum, great for lubrication.

Paulie pushed me forward once more onto my hands and knees. He slathered some of my cum into my hole, and sloshed the rest of it all over his dick. Now we were ready to fuck. He squatted behind me once again, put his knob ad my hole, his foreskin pulled forward. A little push was all it took. Between the lubrication effect of my cum and the sliding effect of his foreskin slipping back as he thrust forward, and the first part of his cock slipped into my waiting hole.

Thick as he was, there was little pain. I wanted this so badly I would have endured much more pain than this. He pushed forward steadily, and just as steadily I pushed back until I felt his balls bounce against my taint.

Now that I had cum, my own balls were hanging loose and free, swinging back and forth as Paulie began to fuck me rhythmically in the gathering dusk. He was a powerhouse once he got started. I prefer a slow, leisurely fuck, but Paulie obviously preferred to pound ass, and that's just what he did. He gave me a real power-fuck, ramming his pile-driver deep into me, over and over and over.

As I said, my balls were hanging free, and they swung back and forth violently as he fucked me, bouncing against my cock and thighs, until they were beginning to hurt.

Then Paulie began to cry out as if in pain:

"Aah! Aaah! Aaaah!" But he wasn't cumming yet. Finally he gave one last "Aaaaaaaah!" forcing himself hard into my ass, and his juices flowed and squirted and spurted deep, deep inside me. I could feel his dick pulsing and contracting and pulsing and throbbing as he pumped his load through it and into me.

Finished, Paulie pulled out of me and flopped on his back onto the lawn beside me.I followed his lead and flopped alongside him.

"Good, no?" he asked.

"Good, yes!" I replied.

We dressed and left the now-dark park. It was not much brighter out on the streets, although the street lamps were coming on.

Paulie insisted that he walk me back to the hostel, back up through the same narrow streets in which he had first accosted me.

"So no robbers will get you," he told me, ironically. He also promised to show me his Madrid the next day.

He was good to his word about walking me back to the hostel, but I never saw him again.

And as soon as I got into the hostel, I checked to make sure I still had my wallet. I did - and my money belt, and my bullfighting poster - and a nice warm asshole with a massive load of Spanish cum deep inside it.

  

How did you like my story? I really appreciate reading your comments about my stories. Please leave your comments below.