After the Last Brick
For six months, I had worked side-by-side with Marco. We were both plasterers, bound by the grit and dust of the construction site. I was eighteen, lean and eager, while Marco was twenty-five, a man of broad shoulders and a quiet, commanding presence. To the rest of the crew, we were just colleagues, but in the privacy of my own mind, Marco was a constant, pulsing obsession. I had spent countless nights imagining the feel of his rough hands on my skin, my fantasies fueled by the way he moved with such effortless strength.
The tension reached a breaking point on a humid Saturday afternoon. The architect had brought over meat and beer to celebrate the completion of the project. As the sun began to dip, the other workers drifted away, leaving only the two of us in the skeletal remains of the house. I checked my watch, my heart hammering against my ribs, feeling the sudden, heavy silence of the building.
“Heading out already?” Marco asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my chest. I stammered a response, my nerves fraying. He smiled, a slow, knowing expression, and began to strip off his work clothes to wash up. When his shirt hit the floor, revealing a torso of hard muscle and tanned skin, I lost my grip on my composure. The heat between my legs became an ache I couldn’t ignore. I retreated to the second floor, hoping the distance would cool my blood, but the sound of heavy footsteps followed me.
“You forgot to wash up,” he murmured, stepping into my space. He looked down, his eyes locking onto the undeniable bulge in my trousers. A smirk played on his lips. “Looks like you’re already excited.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He reached out, taking my hand and guiding it to the hardness beneath his own pants. He was thick and rigid, a promise of the pleasure to come.
I sank to my knees, my breath hitching as I freed him from his clothes. He was magnificent—dark, veined, and imposing. As I took him into my mouth, the taste and scent of him overwhelmed me. Marco groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair, guiding my rhythm. “You take it better than any woman I’ve ever had,” he rasped, his dirty talk sending jolts of electricity through my spine.
The hunger became unbearable. I pleaded with him to take me, to fill the void that had been aching for months. He lifted me up, pressing a deep, searing kiss to my lips before whispering, “I love it when a man knows exactly what he wants.” He pressed me against a stack of cement bags, the rough texture a sharp contrast to the wet, sliding heat of his tongue as he explored my entrance. I gasped, arching my back, completely undone by his touch.
When he finally entered me, the sensation was explosive. He was huge, stretching me wide, filling every inch of my being. He started slowly, letting me adjust to his size, before picking up a relentless, driving pace. The sound of our bodies colliding echoed through the empty house, a rhythmic symphony of lust. I clung to him, my moans filling the air until the world blurred into a haze of friction and heat. With a final, guttural cry, Marco surged deep inside me, releasing everything in a powerful, pulsing climax that left us both breathless and trembling in the dust.