In the sweltering heat of Caracas, I stood accused, my heart racing as the stern-faced guard scrutinized me in the dimly lit detention room. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to hum with anticipation, casting an eerie glow on the cold concrete floor.
His gruff tone cut through the silence, “Strip, puto.” I hesitated for a fleeting moment before compliance took over. My fingers fumbled with the zipper of my jeans as he watched, his eyes burning with an unspoken desire. The sound of my denim sliding down my hips was like music to his ears.
My cock sprang free, and I felt a rush of vulnerability as his gaze roamed over me. He didn’t speak, but his hands moved of their own accord, reaching out to grasp the evidence of my guilt – my dick. His palm wrapped around it, a gentle yet firm grip that made my breath catch in my throat.
“Your cock is beautiful,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. I couldn’t help but arch into his touch as his fingers danced along the length of me. “I want to suck you.”
The guard’s words were like a siren’s call, drawing me deeper into this forbidden moment. I felt my heart pounding in my chest as he dropped to his knees, his mouth closing around my cock with an ease that belied his rough demeanor.
His tongue swirled around the head of my dick, sending sparks of pleasure through my veins. The sounds of our lust – the suck, the slurp, the gasps – filled the room, a pornographic symphony that seemed to reverberate off the walls.
As I reached the brink of orgasm, his hand crept up my abdomen, fingers grazing the ridges of my stomach before closing around my nipple. The pinch of pain was a fleeting thing, giving way to an explosion of pleasure as he milked my cock with his mouth and fingers in perfect harmony.
