After Work
Posted on: March 23, 2008Copyright © 2008 Sticky Pen
I was a fry cook. He was a dishwasher. Never was there a better match made. Outside, together we hauled the barrel of used fryer oil to the receptacle. Muscles strained beneath tight, dirty, white t-shirts. Clogged feet shuffled across the broken pavement of the back parking. Streetlamps shone overheard, casting creepy shadows around the parked cars and adjacent alleyways. The dishwasher was a handsome guy. In that heroine chiseled, been around the block kind of way. I noticed him noticing me noticing him. He smiled. I grinned. We reached the receptacle. With a mighty heave, combining the best of each of our efforts, we dumped the bucket’s contents into the large metal bin. Brows sweating, hearts apace, lungs heaving, we shot each other an accomplished smile. His dimples were adorable. So were mine. We saw what each of us wanted in the reflection of the other’s eyes. His lips tasted salty, but moist and firm. I imagine he felt the same of mine. His body was lean, firm. He smelled of detergents and lime. I wreaked of fried fish and French fries. Our scents intertwined. It was not as unpleasant as one might imagine. His bony hips grinded into my own. My cock was hardening. So was his. My hands were on his face, his neck, his chest, his stomach, down his pants, around his cock, stroking him, squeezing him, tugging him. His hands did the same. Soon, dirty aprons were aflutter, and soiled jeans were around our ankles. Huddled ...
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