“Section 10 of the old market, in 5,” the text message said. The door to the bar creaked open, and Lukas stepped out into the night, the muffled hum of music and laughter fading behind him. The back alley was dimly lit by a single flickering streetlamp, casting jagged shadows across the cracked pavement. He pulled out a cigarette, his fingers fumbling with the lighter in the cool air.
Taking a deep drag, Lukas leaned against the rough brick wall, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled lazily upward. The alley smelled of damp concrete, spilled beer, and the faint metallic tang of rust. Trash bins lined the far side, their lids askew, contents spilling out in messy heaps.
He glanced around, expecting the usual emptiness. But tonight was different.
Near the far end of the alley, something moved—a shadow, quick and low. Lukas froze, his cigarette hovering between his fingers. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.
A stray cat emerged from behind one of the bins, its eyes glowing like two green orbs in the faint light. It paused to stare at him before slinking off into the shadows, its tail flicking dismissively. Lukas chuckled softly, shaking his head.
But as he turned his attention back to the cigarette, he heard another sound—a faint rustling, too deliberate to be the wind. He looked up again.
This time, his eyes landed on a figure crouched near the bins, half-hidden by the shadows. It was a man, his clothes tattered and his face obscured by a tangle of hair. He was rummaging through the trash, pulling out scraps of food and stuffing them into a worn bag.
Lukas hesitated, unsure whether to speak or retreat back inside. The man seemed harmless, but there was a desperation in his movements that made Lukas uneasy.
Before Lukas could decide, the man looked up, their eyes meeting. For a moment, they stared at each other, the distance between them filled with silent tension. Then the man gave a quick, almost apologetic nod and disappeared into the darkness, his bag slung over his shoulder.
Lukas took another drag, the smoke settling uneasily in his lungs. He told himself it was none of his business. People had their reasons for being where they were, doing what they did.
He turned right, where the old market building stood empty, its section poles clearly etched against the sky when he noticed something else. Near the dumpster, a faint glow caught his eye—a small fire in a rusted can, its flames flickering weakly. Around it sat a group of three figures, their faces illuminated by the warm light. They spoke in low voices, their conversation punctuated by occasional laughter.
One of them strummed a beat-up guitar, the soft melody carrying through the cool night air. The sound was oddly comforting, a stark contrast to the bleakness of their surroundings.
Lukas watched them for a moment, feeling like an intruder in their hidden world. They didn’t seem to notice him, their focus entirely on the fire and each other.
“Section 2.” Shadows moved, it was a guy, kissing a drunk girl wildly, her head tilted back.
“Section 5.” A heap of dirty rags on the floor moved, two heads now clearly visible, tossing and turning as the man thrust his body against someone with long hair, yet horny hoarse moans.
As he approached section 10, he spotted graffiti on the wall beside him, bold and vibrant even in the low light. It read: "Even in the darkest places, there’s light."
He crushed his cigarette underfoot, the ember flaring briefly before fading into ash. A tap on the shoulder startled him.
“Lukas?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Andy.”
“Hi.”
“Hey. Just—don’t stop. Don’t. Stop. Hear me?”
“Yeah.”
Night air bit cold. Andy already worked the belt—clank, clank—denim sagging, buttons popping. The alley smelled of sour beer and wet asphalt. Lukas dropped to his knees; gravel dug through denim but he barely felt it. One hand braced on the rough brick, the other guided the half-hard cock out; skin met frigid air, then his mouth.
He started slow, tongue washing the underside, feeling the swell grow against his palate. Andy’s hips rocked, belt buckle clinking every thrust—clank, clank—metal percussion above the wet slap of saliva. A stray cat threaded between their legs, tail brushing Lukas’s calf, meowing once before vanishing.
The half-hard shaft settled on Lukas’s tongue like velvet stretched over spring steel, its ridge felt like a faint seam he traced with slow swipes. As Andy’s blood rose, the cock thickened, not monstrous but firm, nudging until Lukas’s lips met a wiry brush that smelled of cheap bar soap and night smoke. The skin glided silky, carrying a taste of sweat and something metallic—city rain, cold air, distant nicotine. Every throb that heralded the finish knocked quietly at the back of his throat.
“Uh… oh… uugh.” Andy’s voice cracked. He threaded fingers into Lukas’s hair, pushing deeper until crown nudged throat. Lukas breathed through his nose, swallowed around the head, throat muscles rippling. Tears pricked but he held, pulled back an inch, then sank again—slurp—spit glossing the shaft.
“More, more, bitch.” Clank. Clank. “Shit.”
Slurp.
“I. Am. Gonna… aaah.”
Clank.
“Oooh, fuck.”
Slurp.
Andy’s thighs locked; hot salt flooded Lukas’s tongue in thick pulses until he gagged, then—splat, splat, splat—some hit his face, some shot past to spatter the pole marked “10.” Lukas let the wet hardness rest against his cheek until the shudders stopped.
Rustle. Andy tucked himself, buckle clacking twice. “Like it?”
Lukas wiped his mouth, nodded. “Yeah.”
“More some time?”
“Ye-eah, maybe. Here.” Andy folded a piece of paper into Lukas’s palm.
“Thanks.”
“Good job, fucker.”
Footsteps faded. Lukas leaned over, spat a milky glob onto the pavement—splat—then scrubbed lips with the back of his hand. Phone already glowed in his other fist as he pushed through the side door. A wall of jukebox noise, laughter, and alcohol breath swallowed him; he pocketed what he had held in his hand, exhaled, and walked in, safe again inside the warm blur.
“Back alley, near the garbage bins, at 1, black leather jacket, “Mike.”
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