The Night Guard Kept Me After Closing

The rain had been working on Cincinnati since ten, a hard spring soak that turned the riverfront lots into black glass. I was twenty-eight, five foot seven in my boots, thick through the chest and thicker in the thighs, with a soft belly I had stopped apologizing for and a mat of dark hair that showed through any wet shirt. The last ticket of my shift was a large pepperoni for a warehouse guard named Nate. I parked under the sodium light, the box hot against my forearm, and jogged for the shack with rain already in my collar.

He opened the door before I knocked. Nate was thirty-two and built the way I had been hoping the whole drive, dense and bearded, a plush gut testing the buttons of his uniform, dark hair on his forearms and at the open throat of his shirt. He looked at the water on my glasses, then at the way the cotton clung to my stomach, and his mouth went a little crooked.

- You are drowning out there.
- Last drop of the night. Large pepperoni, extra cheese. Ticket says Nate.
- That is me. Get in before you catch something stupid.

The shack was one room and it felt smaller with both of us in it. A metal desk, a humming mini fridge, a folded cot against the cinder block, a radio muttering channel checks. He paid in damp cash and did not take the box. Water ran off my hair and down the back of my neck. The place smelled like coffee, his soap, and warm cardboard.

- You got somewhere dry to be?
- I got a towel and twenty minutes before rounds. Sit. Eat with me. I hate finishing these alone.
- I can stay twenty minutes.

We ate standing because the only chair held the radio. Grease and rain and the clean bite of his soap. His knee found mine and stayed, heavy and sure, and I did not move it. Heat climbed my neck. When I looked up he was already watching my mouth, eyes dark, like he had decided something and was waiting to see if I would catch up.

- You look at every customer like that?
- Only the ones who show up looking like they want it.
- I want more than a look. If you want it too, say so.
- I want it. I want you.

He set the box on the fridge and came back to me without another word. His hand found the soaked hem of my shirt and pushed it up, palm broad and hot on my belly, fingers sinking into the soft give above my belt. I pulled the shirt off and let it hit the floor. Cold air hit my chest, then his mouth did. He kissed me hard, beard scraping my lips, tongue thick and unhurried, tasting of pepperoni and the beer he had been nursing. I shoved both hands under his uniform and found the warm weight of him, the hair that thickened from his navel into a dark rug across his chest. His nipples tightened under my thumbs. He made a low sound into my mouth and walked me backward until my ass hit the edge of the desk.

He opened my belt and shoved my jeans and briefs down in one rough pass. My cock came out thick and flushed, the head already wet, bouncing against the underside of my belly. He wrapped a fist around the shaft and stroked slow, thumb smearing the slick until it shone, watching my face while he did it. Then he went to his knees on the concrete. The first suck was deep and hot, lips stretched around me, tongue pressed flat underneath. He took me to the back of his throat and held there, beard ticking my balls, one hand cupping them and rolling, the other gripping my hip hard enough to leave a sweet ache. Spit ran down the shaft and over his knuckles. I held the desk and watched his mouth work, spit shining in his beard, and when I thrust he took it. He sucked me until my thighs shook, then let me go and stood, mouth shiny, breathing hard.

He turned me and bent me over the desk. The pizza box slid toward the wall. My cheek met cool metal and my cock hung heavy between my thighs. He spit into his palm and worked two fingers into me, patient at the tight ring, then deeper, scissoring, curling until a bright jolt ran up my spine and I leaked onto the floor. I pushed back onto his hand, greedy for it. He opened his pants. His cock was heavy and curved, darker than the pale of his belly, thick enough that my mouth went dry when I looked back at it. He slicked himself with spit and a packet of lube from the drawer, the sound wet and plain in the small room. The blunt head pressed at me. His hand spread wide across my lower back. I bore down and took him.

The stretch burned, then opened into a deep fullness as he sank in until his gut met my ass. He fucked me in long strokes, then harder, the desk creaking, his hairy thighs slapping mine, chest hair dragging my back when he leaned down and bit my shoulder. I stroked myself in time, slick and desperate. He pulled out, spun me, hiked one thigh onto the desk, and pushed back in so we were belly to belly. I locked a leg around his hip. I came first, clenching hard, thick stripes hitting my stomach and his. The grip pulled him over. He buried himself and came in hot pulses I felt inside, shaking, forehead pressed to mine.

He eased out slow, kissed me once with his thumb on my jaw, and reached for the towel while the rain kept hammering the roof.
- Same time tomorrow. I will order the pizza. You stay after.
- I will bring extra napkins. And I will not be in a hurry.