The Midnight Watchman
The air was thick with the humid stillness of a Nicaraguan midnight. I had been spending my nights walking between my home and a sick relative’s house, my mind heavy with worry, but my senses heightened by the solitude of the early hours. It was during one of these vigils that I encountered Marcus, the neighborhood watchman. He was a man of twenty-four, married with a child, but possessed a secret hunger that he wasn’t afraid to hint at whenever we crossed paths.
Marcus had a way of testing the waters, telling me stories about clandestine encounters in the neighborhood, watching my reactions with a keen, predatory interest. I usually kept my answers short, playing the part of the oblivious youth, but there was an electric tension between us that neither of us could ignore. One Saturday morning, around three-thirty, the sound of his whistle pierced the silence. When I stepped outside to meet him, the look in his eyes told me that the time for talking was over.
He asked for a drink of water, leading me to a quiet corner away from the prying ears of my sisters. The conversation shifted quickly from neighborhood gossip to the intimate. He asked if I had a girlfriend, and then, with a boldness that made my heart hammer against my ribs, he asked if I had ever been with a man. I told him I hadn’t in years, that I didn’t really know what I was doing. He smiled, a slow, knowing expression, and guided me toward a secluded boulevard beneath the shadow of a sprawling tree.
“Do you want to touch me?” he whispered. I hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding. He took my hand and pressed it firmly against the bulge in his trousers. The thrill of the risk—the possibility of being caught in the dead of night—only added to the intensity. When he finally unzipped his pants, revealing a thick, imposing length of flesh, I felt a surge of desire I hadn’t experienced in a decade. I sank to my knees, the rough pavement scraping my skin, but I didn’t care.
I started slowly, tasting him, my tongue swirling around the head of his member while my hands explored his weight. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the quiet street. “God, you’re natural at this,” he gasped, his hips twitching as I took more of him into my mouth. I worked him with a hunger that surprised even me, sliding up and down his length, savoring the scent and the heat of him.
We paused for a frantic moment when the sound of footsteps approached. I pressed myself against the trunk of the tree, holding my breath as two men walked past, oblivious to the scene. Once they were gone, the urgency returned tenfold. I returned to him with renewed passion, sucking and swirling until he reached his limit. He shuddered violently, releasing a hot, heavy flood of seed into my mouth. I swallowed every drop, tasting his release, before he pulled me up into a searing, desperate kiss.
As we pulled apart, breathless and flushed, he looked at me with a mixture of lust and curiosity. He asked if I had ever been penetrated. I told him no, but that I wanted him to be the one to do it. He thought he was the one teaching me, but as I looked into his eyes, I knew that I was about to show him exactly how much I could handle.