Working the late shift

This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.

WORKING THE LATE SHIFT

By anonymous.a

I was tired. But that’s not what this story is about.

First, some preamble.

I’m one of those lucky guys. I have a full-time job with benefits. I work Monday through Friday, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. I rarely work nights or weekends, and never on holidays.

It’s enough to make you sick, right?

But here I was, working a late shift. I’m an editor at a graphic arts company. I think “facilitator” would be a better job title, because I rarely edit anything. I pull together writers and artists for various jobs, then tweak the results. It doesn’t sound like much but it’s difficult work. Art being so subjective, it takes talent to put together the best combination of artist and writer. So much of what they do depends on their chemistry; issues of creativity, workflow, and the ability to meet deadlines. Then, the client must be convinced what they produce is what he or she wanted. I could go on, but that’s not why you’re reading this.

It was late on a Thursday night, I’d say about 8-ish, and I was still at the job, sweating out a problematic newsletter for a local contractor. The guy was German and true to his Teutonic roots, he was a stickler for detail – an excruciating stickler. I was all but done and the rest could wait for morning, but I needed to take a leak and maybe grab a Diet Coke from the machine in the mailroom – that’s where the closest bathroom was.

The mailroom was dark, but the light was on in the break room where the Coke machine was located. I entered the men’s room and stood before the only urinal, which sat in a cubbyhole between the sinks and the stalls.

As I was peeing, the men’s room door suddenly opened and somebody came inside. They saw the urinal was occupied and went to a stall, slamming the door shut and latching it. I could hear the rustle of fabric, a shuffled step, and silence for a moment.

Then, the sound of a firehouse being emptied into the toilet.

I stood there, flabbergasted. That a pee-hole on a male organ could be that big – it was a thing of wonder. For the love of God, it really sounded like somebody had hauled a hose into the stall and was spraying it full force into the toilet. The suddenness, loudness and, well, the violence of it had my own pee-hole shrinking, as if my bladder were intimidated by the brute in the stall. Whoever was in there must have had a horse dick.

I finished up and zipped, then washed my hands and left the restroom. I was standing in front of the Coke machine in the break room, wondering if I really wanted a Diet Coke, when I heard the men’s room door open and somebody start down the hallway. My curiosity got the best of me and I feigned an excuse to glance at the hallway as the guy walked by.

I couldn’t believe it.

Our company does not directly employ any writers and only a single artist, Kevin, who was middle aged but nonetheless talented and creative. He frequently has to jump in and modify another artist’s work at the last second. He’s a widower and has two sons. The oldest has already graduated from college and works for a software company. I couldn’t remember his name. The youngest was Andrew.

How to describe Andrew?

If you had to guess his age you’d swear he was 15 or 16, but I know for a fact he’s already graduated from high school and is attending the local community college. What does that make him? Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty? He’s got a sloppy mop of blonde-ish-brown hair, his skin seems perpetually tanned, and as our friends in the UK might say, he’s a fit lad. He coaches a travel soccer team and has to keep up with kids, with all that running and whatnot. So he’s got very muscular legs. Another thing about him – despite that baby face, he’s hairy. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t checked him out from time to time as he stopped by the office to see his dad.

As he passed the opening to the break room he saw me and said, “Hey.” Like a lot of kids these days, he wasn’t very talkative with anyone over the age of 30.

I said “Hey” back, then asked, “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

He backed up down the hallway so he could see me. “I just got off practice. I was hoping Dad was still here so I could catch a ride home.”

I shook my head. “He’s been gone for hours.”

His face fell. “Shit. That means I have to walk another 3 miles to get home.”

I fed a dollar into the Coke machine and hit the Diet Coke button. “I can give you a ride but you’ve gotta wait till I finish this,” I said, holding up the can that clunked its way into the dispenser. I pulled out a chair at the break room table and sat down. He came in and sat down across from me.

God, he was a good looking kid, that hair falling into his eyes and his cheekbones showing just enough of an outline to give his face a slender definition. I found myself imagining what his chest looked like – nicely defined pecs and blemish-free skin, the kind that begs you to run your hands, then your tongue, up and down and across. His torso would narrow to a flat waist, then flare into a muscle-bound bubble butt, that horse dick counterbalancing all that weight to the interior. Throw in those sturdy legs and big clodhopper, puppy-like feet, and you’ve got a sexual feast that could keep you busy for years.

He looked at me strangely, as if he could sense what I was thinking. I shook my head and offered an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, it’s been a long day,” I said. “Just trying to get my eyes uncrossed from all this work.”

He didn’t say anything, so I asked, “How’s school? What are you studying? How much longer before you go to university.”

He nodded. “School is good. I’m majoring in sports medicine so I’ve got all these anatomy and physiology classes, in addition to all the required crap they make you take, like philosophy and English. I hate those classes.”

I worked on my Diet Coke as we chatted about school, then shifted to his dad, then talked about his girlfriend, who was now his ex-girlfriend, and he was not happy with that, not happy at all, which allowed the conversation to become much more personal … and sexual.

I told him a story, and I was making it up as I went along but truth be told that sometime between hearing him piss and seeing him walk down the hallway, I had decided I would get into this hot boy’s pants, and if I were to ever have a chance of doing that, now was the time. Clearly he wasn’t gay, but there are times when a guy’s sexual orientation can be, let’s say, stretched to accommodate other boundaries. And what needed stretching right now, apart from his orientation boundaries, were my jaws as his horse dick plunged in and out.

So I told him about my girlfriend in college, and how she had suddenly and without forewarning dumped me, and how it shattered me. I told him how my roommate and I went out and got drunk that night – slobbery, meanderingly shitfaced – and how he had to carry me back to our dorm room, and when I started crying, instead of dumping me into my bed like most guys would have done, he sat there with me, and held me. And then … oh, and then, somehow his holding me became kissing, and before either one of us knew what was happening I was taking him into my mouth. We spent the night in the same bed, and when I woke up in the morning, splitting headache and all, I looked over at him and knew that I had enlarged my world, that I would never again think of men, or women, in the same way.

Andrew was staring at me.

I chuckled and said, “Well, there it is. If I’ve learned anything in my 39 years on this planet, it’s that nothing is set in stone. You’re taught from birth that men must be attracted to women, but that’s not the whole story. Sure, be attracted to women.” I looked at him with half a smile which I felt slowly leaving my face. “But understand it’s not a horrible thing if you sometimes hook up with a guy, because that can be fun too. A whole lot of fun.”

Andrew looked down at the tabletop. “I don’t know. …”

I patted the table at a spot in front of me. I pushed back my chair a little.

“Get up and come over here,” I said.

He just stared, so I said, “C’mon. Take a chance for once in your life.”

He seemed to think about that, then shrugged, got up, walked around to my side of the table and planted his butt on the edge of the table, right in front of me.

I looked up at him, through his feathery hair, and stared deeply into his soft eyes. “Drop ’em.”

He was wearing a pair of silky, shimmery nylon soccer shorts. He slid them over the mounds of his ass and they fell to the floor with a slinky whisper. I gazed at his … firehose.

Jesus Christ. That such a slight-framed young man could be so wonderfully endowed. Who was the comedian who said, speaking about big dicks, “You never know who’s gonna get one”? Andrew had one – a huge one, sheathed in a mantle of uncircumcised glory as it hung from a nest of wiry black pubic hair. It was the dividing line between a pair of giant balls nestled in a bristly, saggy scrotum. My God, anything and everything a gay man could want.

I sat there for a long moment, just admiring this wonderment that lay before me. Then I grabbed his bubble butt and buried my face in his crotch.

The smell. I could have gotten off on that alone. Sweat, of course. He’d been out running. But a trenchant musky odor, thick with pheromones that begged me to let him get that thing inside me. I ran my nose and my face through his crotch, across his superheated cock and through that dense forest of pubes and down around his giant, penduluming balls, where the musky scent became overpowering. I swallowed spit because my mouth would not stop watering. I refused to open my eyes because I was saving the sight of him for that moment of lust when I could no longer resist his temptations.

I took his cock in my hand and skinned back the loose folds. Usually when I’m going down on a guy I like to start by licking the underside of his cockhead, tickling it with my tongue, then allowing my tongue to explore the pisshole for any precum that might be leaking. But this boy was so sexy I couldn’t resist – I slid my mouth over the head, opened my throat and took him all the way down. The move elicited a gasp from him, which is how I knew I had him. I started a gentle sucking and I massaged the underside of that fat boy in mouth with my tongue, flattening it and running it up and down in a steady rubbing motion. THEN I pulled off and used my tongue to rub the underside of his dick.

I sneaked a peek at him. He was lying back on the table, framed by his oh-so-hairy thighs, and his eyes had a slightly glazed look as if he had just taken a hit of some euphoric and was enjoying a moment of bliss. I set back to work on his cock, but by then my attention had shifted to those luscious, hairy balls. I was cupping them with my right hand and simply fed them into my face, rolling them across my lips as his scrotal hairs tickled my nose. The smell was heavenly. The heat was divine.

My tongue found its way under his balls and began exploring that sweaty, hairy channel between testicles and his love socket, and I wondered – Will he let me taste that, too? A lot of guys, especially the straight ones, are overly protective of their assholes. They’re afraid you’re going to stick something in it (and they’re right). But some know that second to the spine, the asshole as the biggest bundle of nerves in the human body.

I slowly inched my way in that direction. Was it my imagination or did I feel him raise himself up slightly? I put my hands on the underside of this thighs and pushed back, spreading his butt cheeks and exposing his treasure.

The crack of his ass was just as hairy as the rest of his crotch, but there, nestled within that forest of pubes, lay his puckered rosebud. I paused a moment to collect my courage, then dove in with my tongue.

The heat was amazing, as was the musk – not the sharp, acrid tang of shit but a strong, earthy, manly musk, as if his hormones had cranked up into overdrive. I buried my tongue in his crack and rubbed it against his hole, his balls draped over my nose, and when I did that he let out a whimper and lay back, giving me even greater access. Seems our boy here liked having his ass toyed with.

I poked at it with my tongue and lapped both sides of his crack, and I heard a rhythmic rustling. He was jerking his cock. Seeing that I attacked his hole, probing with my tongue and licking and planting my mouth directly over that region of his crack to maximize my coverage. His crack became a furnace of sex-fueled heat, and his free hand slipped around to the back of my head as he pulled me deeper into his crack. I couldn’t believe the amazing taste and scent of this boy, and I marveled that I could even have this opportunity. My own cock was throbbing in my pants and I wanted to grab it but that would have meant letting go of his hairy leg, and the feel of his flesh and muscles was too much of a turn-on to do that.

He pulled my face into him with greater force and began rocking his ass so that my tongue rubbed over even more of his crack, and then suddenly he cried out, and I heard something I have never, ever heard before: the sound of cum blasting out of his balls, through his tubes out the end of his glorious cock. Multiple jets of cum, traveling through his package with a swishing sound. I wanted to see it but I didn’t dare take my face out of his ass. He had begun to sweat with his exertions and now I tasted salt and an even more pungent funk – God this was a sexy boy.

We remained in that position for a moment, and then he slowly lowered his legs and I backed away from his crack. His cock was losing its bone. His shirt was splotched with cum. I leaned up and licked one gob of spooge, tasting its velvety goodness. Assuming they haven’t been out eating or drinking something weird, the cum of a young man is delicious, and this was the best I’d ever tasted. I rolled it around on my tongue then swallowed, knowing my mouth would retain the taste and feel of his seed for hours afterwards.

I got up and looked down at myself. For the first time ever I had cum without touching myself. My pants were soaked. Good thing it was night, or I’d have to sneak out and drive myself home to change.

He got up and pulled up his shorts. His eyes were glazed, as if he’d just smoked a joint. That cute mop of hair was in disarray. Only I knew why.

“Now, how about that ride home?” I offered. He nodded, his eyes averted, as if he were embarrassed about what just happened.

“Mind if I make a quick pit stop at my place on the way?” I asked. “I need to change these,” and I pointed at the wet stains in my crotch. He said it was cool.

We left. As I drove, I planned another scenario, one that might take place once I got him inside my house.

But that’s another story.

Check out Part 1 of my erotic novel “One Day in the Life of Josh” at Amazon. It’s only 99 cents, but I guarantee you’ll get more than a dollar’s worth of hot action. Follow this link: http://www.amazon.com/ONE-DAY-LIFE-JOSH-PART-ebook/dp/B014ORH9YE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1450023605&sr=8-1&keywords=one+day+in+the+life+of+josh

I’ve collected all my daddy-son stories into a single volume, “Daddy’s Boys,” on Kindle. Take a look at it here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CC7PZO4

Let’s connect on twitter. Meet me at @anonymous_sexie, and shhhh! Don’t tell anyone.

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