The Night Watchman Pt. 03

ENTERED INTO THE 750 Word Project 2023

A Three-act story.

3 differing categories.

750 words.

________

"Darlin, I want us to be friends."

I looked up from wolfing leftover pizza on the one measly 10 minute break I'm afforded to the soft voice addressing me.

"So, I'm asking you not to harm Bartholomew."

"Bartholowho?" I asked choking on the name as much as a mouthful of greasy cheese and pepperoni, "Lady, I'm just here doing a job, making ends meet, ok?"

Ms. Weathersby strolled from the breakroom doorway and seated herself across from me.

"Shugah, please, call me Beatrice," she grinned as she slid me a napkin, "Ya know, fame can be a beacon for opportunistic, unsavory characters."

"Come now, you're being far too kind on yourself," I deadpanned, "There're plenty more appropriate slurs for you."

"I love him."

"Save your lies! I want nothing from either of you!" I insisted, wiping my mouth.

"Good!" she said with an approving wink, "Then, sweetie, you and I shouldn't have further business."

"Did we have any to begin with?"

She tilted her head trying to be all librarianish and read me. Staring into her blue eyes, I better understood her sexual grip over Rocket, er, Bartholomew. My cock hardened and I hoped my questioning continued our cat and mouse game.

"How's about you take a bite of my stiff...
pizza?"

Deep blue eyes flashed hot red then immediately composed themselves back to serene blue. She declined my generosity, saying, "Bless your sweet heart."

And I smiled having pissed her off knowing I'm a man she could not easily manipulate.

She rose leaving and I stood as well, victimized by polite upbringing, and quickly covered my crotch with napkin.

Ultimately convincing myself that she saw nothing, I turned to throw away my uneaten crust.

"Do you like anal?" I heard her suddenly return, blurting the vulgar question from behind.

Gone now was the sweet, southern, motherly act - replaced with intentions on dealing with cold, calculated, matters of facts.

"I think you do. You like it alot."

I said nothing.

She moved across the room, pinning me in front the microwave.

"You wanna know how it feels having his cock in my ass?"

"No!" I lied.

"I scream. I do that every time his dick forces its way past my tight sphincter. That's why we only do anal in the basement archives. No screams can be heard there once the door closes."

I backed away, only cornering myself more.

"Thing is... I wanted it there! Asked for it! Begged even! Now, I can even cum from his cock cramming the empty spaces of my shitter."

I listened as this schoolmarm described in explicit detail her enjoyment at the plundering and wrecking of her rectum from a BBC.

"...to sleep sideways, ...see me walking the day after, ...Preparation H!”

On and on she went.

"He loves taking it straight outta my ass into my waiting mouth. I enema first, like any good anal whore does, of course."

"But of course," I nodded, squirming in agreement.

"You'll like this," she purred, coming oh so closer to me with phone in hand, "See?"

Rocket's cock was rooted to the hilt in white ass.

"Stretched! You can tell it's needing more lube."

She swiped her phone again.

"The aftermath," she bragged.

Petite hands with red manicured nails spread pale white buttcheeks as the very large head of a black dick rested on an obscenely gaped and swollen rim of a well used colon cavity.

I looked away in disgust after committing the 2 pics to memory.

"Impressed? You aroused?" chuckling, she turned leaving, "Hide tonight in the library basement. See live and up close me sitting, riding my asshole on his mule cock."

"I won't be there!" I shouted as she rounded the corner.

______

I hid in a far dark corner of the basement naked, steadily stroking already hard dick with one hand while holding cellphone in the other, eagerly waiting to record my way onto Easy Street.

The door slammed shut.
Heavy footsteps followed.
Blinding lights were turned on.
3 very large players of the sport of football angrily stood before me.

"We hear someone's seein things that could hurt our good friend. That, pray tell, wouldn't be you?" asked the smallest one as the larger two cracked their knuckles smiling.

I should've been more concerned about my dire predicament - future ability to walk,
chew solid food, maybe rub one out.
But instead, I began hysterically laughing, wondering...
Exactly which 'good friend' they meant: Rocket Smith?
Or one Beatrice Weathersby?