Invited

Chapter 39

( Malcolm )

Tuesday morning, getting ready for work, I'm thinking about last night with Barns and how that may have been a bigger deal than I'm giving it credit for. It was my first time topping so that right there was a very big deal. I liked that a lot, except I like being a bottom much, much more. There were ups and downs, but overall, it was a positive, confidence-raising experience for me. Todd wasn't initially too happy about having my dick in his ass, but it turned out very good for both of us.

Barns doesn't light my fire, especially, but I'd still have another date with him, assuming he'd be the top fucking me with his big cock. We're both submissive bottoms, but we could take turns, you know.

Later this morning, on the train, I'm holding onto a pole standing in an overcrowded car, trying to see a young guy at the other end of the car. He's being partially blocked by a woman with the largest ass I've ever seen on a human. The large woman is hanging onto an overhead strap as if it's the only thing holding her up, her body swaying, blocking my view, on and off, of the kid, who appears to be about my age and size.

Looking at him makes me feel funny. What first attracted my attention was his hair, which was the same shade of light blond as mine, plus it was almost as curly. The buzzing in my balls, however, has nothing to do with his hair. No, it's something about his expression that's sexily intriguing.

Well, first of all, he's a rare cute guy. Out of all the guys I've seen on my bus and train rides going back and forth to work the past months, not a single one would I think of as cute. So this kid is a rare cute guy, but it's not just that. He's also projecting what I feel is a hot-shit 'attitude.' Yeah, somehow, his posture and the semi-arrogant baby-face expression of his are making my dick hard.

I mean, Jesus, just look at him! Young guys as cute and good-looking as this boy are as rare as pearls in oysters. Jeez, though, ha-ha, how hot would it be if he was a dominant top messing around fucking me? Wow, wow, wow!

I'd never have had a sexy thought like that one before recently gaining confidence. Oh, fuck, he just looked right at me! Goddammit!

Omigod, we had a full second of eye contact before I could react and look away. He was looking right into my eyes as if he knew I was staring and fantasizing about him. Wow, my face feels hot. His eyes looked sleepily sexy, and was that a smirk on his face? I averted my eyes as soon as I could, but it wasn't nearly fast enough. Covering that up, I did a fake cough into the side of my fist, but I don't know if he was still staring.

He has an indescribable something that resonates with me as being sexually inviting. And, you know, that's the 'something' that was missing with Barns last night. Taking a chance, I glance over to see if the blond boy is still looking at me but only get an eye full of the woman with the ginormous hypo ass.

Then, everyone sways as the train comes to a stop. This stop is for the station before mine and the one the blond guy gets off. Huh, he got off without so much as a glance back at me. Well, what are ya gonna do? I mean, only a relatively small percentage of humans are gay. Fortunately, I've read about gaydar and may have used it to check that boy out. It was like a tingling in my brain and balls that maybe I'd discovered a secret gay guy.

Well, I'll be looking for him on the train tonight. Holy shit, though, I usually only stare and fantasize about Billy! Plus, if I haven't seen that boy in all the months I've been riding this train, why do I think he'll be on the train tonight? Still, maybe...

Even a few weeks ago, I wouldn't have gotten all gooey from looking at that boy, never mind fantasizing that he could dominate my ass until I was a quivering puddle of submissiveness. Well, that's an exaggeration, but not too long ago, I simply wouldn't think of ogling guys on the train. I'm changing, though, and I have been slowly changing for months now.

Yep, but if it ever turned out that the hot-shit blond boy was gay and inclined to mess around with me, that baby-faced skinny motherfucker would definitely be a hot top and probably end up spanking my bare ass.

And, yeah, it was Barns who put that spanking idea in my head. I'd never thought of spanking in a sexual light before. Hell, I never thought about spanking at all, actually. Yeah, Barns was full of surprises last night! It was shocking to discover how Todd, now Barns, has lost most of his shyness and replaced it with confidence. He wanted to be the submissive bottom, yes, but he wasn't shy about it; he confidently insisted on it.

And what's up with me thinking in terms of submissive/dominant? That was another thing Barns mentioned last night, but why am I now thinking in his terminology? Was I really the guy/guy last night, or was Barns in charge of running things?

Nah, it was mostly me. Barns isn't the only guy who lost some shyness and replaced it with confidence. I have, too, and my brazen fantasy about the blond train boy illustrates this.

Everyone changes slightly with each new experience, and I've had a lot of new experiences over the past twelve months. Billy mentioned some time ago that he noticed a change in me. He said it was an okay change, but he didn't want me to change too much because he liked me the way I was. He meant the way I was that time we walked four miles home from high school, and we started hanging out together.

No, I didn't notice the changes in myself back then, but I do now. Have I changed enough, though, to follow through on messing around with the blond boy on the train in the highly unlikely event he invited me to do so? Well, yeah, maybe I have, and maybe I would.

Then I have another thought. One I had last night, and it's this: am I turning into an oversexed slut who will mess around with anyone who invites me? A year ago, I didn't even know I was gay, and now I'm using gaydar to fantasize about a blond stranger being a dominant top for me. What the fuck's going on in my head, and, perhaps more importantly, why don't I feel it's a bad thing?

Jeez, I'm hoping Mark Jones is at work today so we can have lunch together. I feel comfortable talking about sexy stuff with him, and maybe he'll have some insight into these new ideas I'm having. He's the one who told me that I get more sex than anyone he knows. That was news to me, but I shrugged it off back then. Now, however, I want to follow through and ask him what having more sex than most says about me. Was he implying I'm a sex slut or what?

And why aren't I more concerned about being a sex slut, or something like that. Well, maybe it's because I can't see how I'm hurting anyone, including myself. I've never felt more alive than I have this past year messing around with Billy. Plus, I've made more friends in the last year than in all my previous seventeen years combined. That includes my messing around friends Pat and now Barns. I'm finally living my life in a humanist manner where, before, I merely existed. It's ironic that my stumbling efforts at being the guy/guy for Barns would open another new way for me to view, um, myself, my life.

Walking to work on this nice day in May, I confirm with myself that none of these revelations have anything to do with my love for Billy. That hasn't changed. Not for me, it hasn't, but the heat appears to have lessened in Billy. I say that because some weeks ago, he stopped using the word love, as in he's in love with me.

Yeah, but I've always made the love word too big of a deal, anyway. Why aren't I satisfied, thrilled actually, that Billy says I'm the person he likes more than anyone he's ever known? That's a huge endorsement, and coming from Billy, it's bigger than huge because he doesn't throw around affectionate sentiments hardly at all.

Then, joining the line of employees walking into the office building, like robots, without thinking about it, we hold up our ID cards, then drop them on lanyards and continue to the bank of elevators. Huh, strangely, I'm not especially disturbed by any of my bold thoughts this morning. They're a step in my more confident thinking process about life.

Getting off the elevator on the third floor, I walk through the office and, for the fun of it, smile at pretty Serenity in her Human Resources cubical. As usual, she squints, doing a tentative half-smile, probably still wondering who the fuck I am. She hired me four or five months ago but has dealt with many hires since then. I don't blame her for not remembering me, and, anyway, I'm a different person now.

By five minutes to eight, I've gotten the envelope opening machine running smoothly, so I look for Fredrico to compliment me for being at work early. He's my super handsome straight boss, who I'm supposed to check in with each morning. Yesterday he said he wasn't feeling well, though, so he might be out sick today. Christ, I hope he doesn't have a variant of Covid.

I soon forget about Fredrico because the repetitive nature of this work puts me into a zombie trance, although there is always a tiny alert part of my brain that looks out for my fingers. It would be inexcusably stupid of me to ignore the sharp-as-a-razor function of this machine.

Startling me, a woman supervisor from the mailroom comes by to tap my shoulder. I jump, and she snickers; then tells me Fredrico is indeed out sick today and that Maggie will give me instructions later this morning. Instructions, hmm?

I can't imagine what instructions she could give me, but I smile, nodding that I understand. The loud hum of the smooth-running DL2000 machines makes conversation difficult, which works out okay for me because it eliminates the possibility of a lot of boring chit-chat. Damn, though, I miss the way Fredrico brightens my day with his beautiful smile and his compliments that I'm doing a good job.

At nine o'clock, right on schedule, the cart girl comes by. I help her load the opened envelopes onto her cart. She has zero personality, so I don't bother trying to converse with her in any meaningful way other than smiling and yelling, "Good morning, Rose."

Sometimes she rolls her eyes at me and says nothing. Today she said something, but the machine was too noisy, and I couldn't hear what she said. I was curious because it's rare she says anything. I'm like, "Excuse me," and she yells over the noise of the machine, "Beware of the sharp knife of a short life."

I'm like, "Huh? A sharp knife, wha...?" but she's rolling the cart away.

At ten o'clock, I take my morning break in the cafe. I'm putting a quarter in the coffee vending machine when Maggie, the mailroom/stockroom manager, Fredrico's boss, calls to me from a table across the room, "Grant!"

That's what she insists my name is. I look over, and she loudly tells me what I already know, "Freddy's out sick today!" Then she added what I didn't already know. "You need to quickly finish opening mail and report to Morrison on the loading dock. Do it as quickly as you can. He's expecting you."

What the fuck?

Morrison is the black grumpy old guy who Fredrico never assigns me to work for. I yell back, "Um, yeah, okay. Ah, do you mean for the rest of today?"

Looking annoyed, she motions with her hand for me to go over to where she's sitting at a table with two men I've never seen before. Carrying my coffee, I go over, and she says, "Christ, Grant, you're not outside! Stop yelling across the room at me."

Well, what the fuck? She started yelling first.

I muttered, "Sorry," and she said, "I need you working for Morry at least the rest of the week, not just the rest of the day. He's supervising the cleaning out and reutilizing of that filthy fifth loading dock bay. It's a horribly messy job, so tomorrow, with that in mind, um, wear old clothes, whatever you're comfortable getting dirty in."

Swell! This blows... Fredrico would never have me doing janitorial work! Still, I try not to frown, asking, "Do you mean when I finish my job on the DL2000 machine each day?"

"No! Let me worry about that. First thing in the morning, eight o'clock, I want you to report directly to Morry. At least for the rest of this week. And, as I said, he's expecting you this morning too. Right now, actually."

I guess my facial expression indicates I'm less than pleased because Maggie says, "Hey, Grant, don't be negative. On my team, I want volunteers, not hostages. Decide which one you want to be."

Bitch!

I try sounding sincere, saying, "No, I'm not negative! I'm a team player!" Sort of, although I sure as shit wouldn't volunteer for this loading dock job. Jeez, if I didn't need this shitty job, I'd tell her to stick... Yeah, but I do need it if I want a car and an apartment.

Knowing she has the upper hand, she steps on my throat a little more, "Not only that, Grant. There's a good possibility that you'll be working for him next week as well. And, um, I need to talk to Fredrico about this, but Morry wants a full-time helper down there, and I'm thinking you're probably going to be it, so pay attention and mind what Morry tells you."

Well, that blows even more! Nodding again, I skip the phony smile this time, mumbling, "Uh-huh." I'm not too worried because I know Fredrico won't agree to it. He'll want me in his unit.

Maggie goes, "I'm sorry, but you're the only young man I've got, Grant, and this is a man's job. Um, and you'll need some sort of Covid-type mask as there will be a lot of unpleasant dust involved with cleaning out the old insulation. Well, I'll let Morry tell you what to do and what you'll need for the job. "

It sounds worse and worse the more she talks about it, but, taking a deep breath, I control my anger, "Sure, Maggie," then walk away, again without my usual forced smile. I'm furious about this turn of events. Then I hear someone yell, "Over here, Gary!"

Oh, balls, just what I don't need! It's one of the girls from the mailroom, Ronda-something. She likes to flirt and tease me during breaks asking about how many girlfriends I have and shit like that. I need coffee in the morning, so I put up with the girls. Then, avoiding the girls is mostly why I rarely take an afternoon break and never eat lunch here.

This morning, Ronda's at a table with two other mailroom workers, older women. Ronda is twenty years old, or at least that's what she told me. She looks older. One of the huge drawbacks of my job is not having guys to hang out with on breaks. It also means any dirty hard job is gonna be my job, according to Maggie. There aren't any guys in this department unless I count Morrison, who is in his fifties.

Forcing another phony smile, I sit across from Ronda, saying, "Good morning, ladies. The sharp knife of a short life, huh?"

The slim Hispanic lady, Maryanne, mutters, "You're adorable, sweetie, but what the fuck does that sharp knife thing mean?"

I shrug, "Hell, if I know, but it's what Rosie said..." and the boring chit-chat goes on for fifteen minutes. The ladies are okay; they mean well, and they're usually nice to me, but I need some guys to talk with. That's where Mark comes in.

After the coffee break, I took some initiative by basically disregarding Maggie's explicit instructions. Instead, I finish the rest of the morning on the DL2000 machine. I'll reluctantly report to Morrison after lunch.

And, as I expected, no one cared that I'd taken this initiative, and I feel good about myself for doing it. Not too long ago, I wouldn't have thought to disobey Maggie. Now, I figured, if anyone questioned me, I'd say, 'Oh, I thought she meant after I finished today's envelopes.' Some vague bullshit like that.

Anyway, feeling ballsy, I turn off the machine and head off to lunch. More than ever, I'm hoping Mark is here today to have lunch with me. Eating out every day is wicked expensive, but, as I mentioned, I'm willing to spend the money to avoid eating inexpensively with girls in the cafeteria.

Getting off the elevator, there's Mark waiting for me. Wow, I've been taking it for granted lately, but Mark Jones is a super cute and sexy hot nineteen-year-old! And, oh yeah, he's a super cool hot shit too. Well, except his red hair is a little bit screwed up. It's cut oddly. It's cut close on the sides and back but left too long on top and in front. Every thirty seconds, he needs to swipe his long red bangs out of his eyes.

Other than that, Mark's pretty much perfect and qualifies as one of the truly rare cute guys in my life. Today, as usual, he has on a light blue dress shirt and dark blue tie. Working as an office boy for a financial company on the sixth floor, he's required to wear a tie, but he always pulls the knot of his tie down as his minor protest for needing to wear it.

He smugly smiled at me, doing his hot-shit cool smirk at the same time. I smile back at him, foolishly smiling harder than makes any sense. Mark treats me like his little brother, saying we look alike. It's silly, but I sometimes act like a little brother... just goofing off with him.

Ha-ha, I don't know why, but I like playing along with his little brother thing. He also told me he was thinking about making me his boyfriend for a couple of months. Ya know, just until he and his best friend enlisted in the Army. So far, he hasn't acted on that, which hardly matters since I'd never do serious messing around with him anyway. Or maybe I would... I don't know.

Taking hold of my arm, he unnecessarily guides me through the crowds as we leave the building. He asks, "Jesus, Gary, what's with your shaggy look lately? You used to be uber clean-cut and preppy."

Outside now, I shrug, "I don't know, Mark. Ah, well, as I told you before, my boyfriend used to insist we get matching haircuts every three weeks, but lately, he's lost interest in doing that. I know my hair looks shaggy, and it's starting to curl wicked bad too. When I'm going out at night, I use a hair product so I can comb it kind of cool with a part on the side and a pompadour in front."

He chuckles, "Heh-heh, you are consistently and refreshingly innocent or naive or some-fucking-thing. Ha-ha, a pompadour, huh? I'll bet that looks wicked cute, though... seriously. I'd like to see that."

Crossing the street, he takes hold of my arm again, "This way, Gary. We're eating at the lunch truck again. Um, your boyfriend is Billy, right?"

"Uh-huh. That's his name, but it was Pat Summers who I was telling you about during last Friday's lunch. And, um, I'll use the hair goo tomorrow morning so you can see how it looks. Any day now, though, I expect that Billy will decide we need to get haircuts."

Mark puts his arm across my shoulders, saying, "Maybe not. Perhaps wearing eyeglasses resulted in Billy having a brain fart and realizing how improbable it was that there's a magical quality in having twin haircuts."

Huh?

I give him a look, thinking I've been telling Mark way more than I probably should about Billy's and my lives. But, damn, it's like Mark's so easy to talk to I get carried away. Plus, he appears very interested in what I have to say and never blatantly mocks anything I tell him. I mean, yeah, he kind of makes fun of certain things, but he's nice about it.

Anyway, I tell him, "I don't question Billy too much about our haircuts or anything else. He's our leader, and I've always mostly gone along with his decisions. In one way, I hope he has lost interest in those old-fashioned short, butch haircuts because I like slightly longer hair that I can comb. On the other hand, my hair becomes insanely curly if it gets much longer than this."

Mark goes, "Ordinarily, Gary, that would be way, way too much information, but in this case, I'd like to see the curly insanity you're talking about. Hard to believe anything could detract from your cuteness."

I mumble, "Jeez, thanks, but you wouldn't want to see how curly my hair can get... believe me about that. Um, mostly, I guess in my heart of hearts, I wish Billy would get back to insisting on us going to my uncle for our twin haircuts. That would indicate he's thinking about us as twin boyfriends or special partners, at least. Lately, he's been fixated on his college studies, final exams, and, um, the friends he's met at college."

Standing in the back of the line at the food truck, Mark quietly mutters, "Well, whatever. From what you've told me about all your so-called sexy messing around, I wouldn't mind being in your shoes, especially now that they include this cute Pat fellow you've told me about. My gay side is acting up lately, and I'm jealous of all the, ah, the attention you get from the boys."

That's the first time he's said anything like that. Almost whispering, I go, "Yeah? Well, coincidentally, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about today. Um..." I'm looking at the people in line, then whisper, "I'll tell you when we're eating."

He says, "Sure. You know, listening and giving advice is what big brothers, real and pretend ones are good for, little bro."

Grinning, I use two fingers to slide his bangs off his forehead and over to the side. His skin is pale and smooth, with a cute scattering of smallish, tan freckles across his perfect nose. My dick squirms in my pants as Mark leans his face close to mine and murmurs, "Thanks."

Yes, I guess I would like to mess around as Mark's girl/guy gay friend.

When we get our take-out lunch orders, we carry them a block to the small park off Broad Street, where we share a granite bench. As we open the Styrofoam containers, Mark says, "So, what do you want to ask me?"

Instead of asking him what I was going to do, which was asking what he meant by saying I have more sex than most guys. Instead of that, I asked, "Whatever happened to your plan to make me your temporary boyfriend? Um, you know, until you join the Army with your best friend, Jayden?"

He swipes the hair out of his eyes and mumbles, "Ah, yes, Jayden. He's still in love and still spending most of his time with that trollop, Claudine. Oh, hell... no, she's not a trollop, but he does spend a lot of his free time with her."

"I don't know what a trollop is."

Chuckling, he says, "I don't know either. Anyway, nowadays, I spend more time with Jayden's brother, Shy, than I do with Jayden. Then, on the rare occasions when Jayden and I are together, it won't be for long before Claudine magically shows up, ta-da! She knows how close Jayden is with me, so she doesn't want him alone with me if she can help it."

Jeez, yeah, being bisexual and in love with your straight best friend, as Mark is, must be an agonizing situation to deal with. Mark puts his lunch container on the bench and takes his phone out to show me a selfie. It's of him, his black best friend, Jayden, and next to Jayden is a girl who I assume is Claudine. Mark mumbles, "Claudine is standing next to Jaden."

Snickering, "I figured that out for myself, Mark."

Mark flicks to another photo, "This is Shy. He's a year younger than Jayden."

Neither Jayden nor Claudine, who appears to be Asian, is especially attractive, although not especially unattractive either. They're two average-looking young people. Mark, in the photo, is extremely attractive and cute, especially in comparison to the others. He looks like a young movie star or male model. Shy, in the other photo, looks like Jaden's twin. Average looking, in other words.

I nod, "Oh, uh-huh. You showed me a picture of Jaden before, and, um, that's his girlfriend, huh? She isn't anything special, and Shy looks like Jaden's twin."

I'm guessing that Mark probably sees Jayden when he sees Shy, which is probably a big part of why he spends so much time with Shy... maybe.

Putting the phone back in his pocket, Mark picks up his lunch container and says, "Yeah, Claudine is half Japanese and half, um, European, I guess. And, hell, I've been expecting for years that a girl would steal super straight Jayden's attention from me. On the other hand, I think Shy might be gay or bi."

"Do they know you're bi?"

"Yes, of course, everyone knows that. My being bisexual has never been a secret or a problem. Heh-heh, this is a secret, though... um, Jaden let me blow him about ten times during our sophomore year in high school, then he began feeling odd about it, and that was that. Not even a brotherly kiss since then, but maybe Shy will be different."

Swallowing my spicy pork, interested in his oral sex topic, I ask, "So, um, you like giving oral sex, huh?" He gives me a weird look, so I add, "I like giving blowjobs too. Um, have you blown Shy yet?"

Snickering, Mark says, "Don't hold back, Gary; ask me anything."

I go, "Well, we can talk about anything, can't we?"

Finishing his side order of rice, Mark says, "Sure, I guess we can, but no, I haven't done anything sexual with Shy... yet. But, yes, I've needed to use willpower not to do something with him, especially because he has strongly hinted at an interest in experimenting sexually with me. In fact, Shy's done more than hinted; two nights ago, he pretended he was joking, but I know he was serious when he asked if it felt good having a cock in my ass."

"What did you tell him?"

Mark shrugs as he crunches up his empty lunch container, "Nothing. I pretended he was just kidding and ignored him, but that ties in with your question about why I haven't followed up with making you my temporary boyfriend."

Frowning, "Huh? Oh, that. Ha, for Christ's sake, you didn't think I was serious about that, did you? Jeez, dude, I was just joking! Um, but what do you mean, it ties in?"

He tosses his trash in the direction of a trash can, it goes in, and he yells, "Yes!" Then, "Well, I'm not sure who to make my temporary boyfriend, you or Shy. That's the tie-in, but you've already got two or three boyfriends, so I'll probably see how serious Shy is about experimenting. As I said, I've gotta do something because my gay side has been begging for attention lately."

I do some head nodding as if everything he's said makes sense, then get up and drop my lunch take-out container in the trash can, and say, "Um, uh-huh, sure, you should mess around with Shy. He's younger than me and has no messing around experience, so he needs your help more than me."

Standing and brushing his bangs to the side, Mark mumbles, "I'm not so sure either of you needs help. And he's your age, a year younger than Jaden and me. Heh-heh, I obviously know what your euphemistic 'messing around' reference means."

I mutter, "Of course you do. Why wouldn't you?"

As we start walking back to the office, I light a cigarette, then say, "Yep, you need to help Jayden's brother experiment with some gay messing around. We both agree with that. And, not that it's a big deal one way or the other, but I can't imagine why the hell you said you wanted to make me your temporary boyfriend weeks ago and then a couple of weeks later decided to make your best friend's brother your temporary boyfriend. Ha-ha, not that I care, but how does that make any sense?"

He appears surprised by that, "Oh, holy shit, are you saying you'd like to be my boyfriend, Gary? I seriously didn't think you'd be interested, and, anyway, when I joked with you weeks ago about that, I was in my straight-sex frame of mind dating girls. Remember? Gee, I'm sorry you misinterpreted my joking around. I never thought you'd take me seriously."

Exhaling smoke, my face red, I go, "Well, hell, Mark, I knew you were joking! I'm joking too. Ha-ha, jeez, get real, dude!"

Mark asks, "Do you mind?" and he gently takes the cigarette from my fingers, drops it, and steps on it, mumbling, "Secondhand smoke and all that. Since giving up cigarettes, I can't stand the smell."

I mumble, "Yeah, okay. Um, I need to give up this filthy habit anyway. I've only taken up smoking the last... oh, never mind. We both said we were only joking around about the temporary boyfriend thing, but Mark, I'd seriously be your temporary boyfriend if you want me to. I'm in love with Billy, yes, but I have other gay friends who I mess around with. Um, you'd be, ah, I mean, if you wanted someone to temporarily, um, you'd be the top guy, of course, so, um..."

He looks sincerely touched, murmuring, "You're being sincere, aren't you? You know what, Gary? That is the sweetest offer anyone has ever made to me. You'd be the best temporary boyfriend I could ever hope to have too. Still, mostly I'm joking around about a temporary boyfriend because I'm frustrated that Jayden is spending most of his time with Claudine. I'm touched by your offer, but no thanks, Gary..."

Flustered and embarrassed at being so nicely rejected, I'm stupidly taking another cigarette out of my Marlboro box. Smiling, Mark puts his hand on mine, "Please, don't light another cigarette."

His hand feels good on mine. "Oh, ha, I wasn't going to light it," and put the cigarette back in the box and the box into my pocket.

Mark puts his arm across my shoulders, "You know what? Maybe I'm being too hasty here, Gary. Hell, why shouldn't you and I have a buddy's date? I mean, if you are serious about that. Ah, are you?"

Glancing at his face, leaning against his side, I cautiously ask, "Are you?"

"Yeah, I guess, sure; why not? It'd be fun! I just assumed that your undying love of this Billy fellow would prevent you from having an interest in anything or anyone else. Lately, though, you've been telling me about this Pat guy, and then there was that other guy, the one you worked with, too, so..."

"You mean, George. We had a short boyfriend-type fling months ago. My latest fling was last night when I introduced, as a favor to him, some gay messing around to this sort of friend of mine from high school. I'm no expert, but compared to him, I was."

Mark looks surprised, shocked, actually. I guess he didn't expect I could do that.

"Wow, you've been a busy boy! Have I ever told you that you're getting more sex than anyone I've ever known or read about?

"Oh, yeah, you told me that five or six weeks ago, and I was wondering if, um... Well, do you think that makes me a sex slut, or trashy or something?"

Laughing, he shakes his head, "No, you're not a sex slut. Ha-ha-ha, Jesus, that you could ask that so innocently gave me a hardon, ha-ha."

I'm like, "Seriously?"

"Ah, no, not seriously, Gary. Hard-on was just a figure of speech... never mind that, though. Listen, um, as far as I know, you're not going around looking for sex, and you don't pay for it or get paid for it. Instead, sexy boys gravitate to you because you're so fucking cute, likable, and willing; plus, so far, you've been lucky to meet good guys who haven't taken advantage of you. None of that is what I would consider slutty behavior; it's a gay boy's dream, is what it is. Ha-ha."

"Uh-huh, you're right; I have been lucky meeting the right boys. Billy and Pat look out for me even though there's no need for them to do that. It's nice they want to do it, though. Now I'm sort of trying to play it forward by looking out for this guy, Todd Barnstable, er, Barns. He finished his freshman year at the University of Pennsylvania with no problems. However, he's a novice and therefore curious about gay sex and figured I'd be a good guy to experiment with."

"Wow, he must be awfully smart getting accepted at that university."

"Yeah, I guess he's wicked smart about book learning or whatever but not so smart about gay relationships. Not that I am either, but as I said, compared to Barns, I am."

Inside our office building, we show our ID badges, then walk past security and onto the main floor. Mark says, "How about this? Tomorrow, we'll talk about going on a date. I don't know what we'll do on our date; maybe see a movie. First dates are awkward."

Nodding, I go, "Nah, we'll probably not see a movie. More likely, I'll show you the Sears parking lot off 80th Street. It's a safe spot for a gay date, and if you want me to, I'll mess around sucking you off."

He snorts out a barking laugh, then says, "Holy shit, you're a tiger, aren't you? A sex tiger in disguise."

"No, I'm not a tiger. What I'm trying to be, and you'll think this is silly, but I'm trying to be a more sociable person while, at the same time, being a good girl/guy too."

He laughs out loud, then says, "Omigod, the shit you come out with! Strangely, though, I think I know what most of the things you say mean."

Nodding, I chuckle, "Our first date, though, depends on, well, Billy. He said he'll be studying for finals again tonight, so tomorrow night, I'm pretty sure he and I will, um, you know..."

Mark mutters, "Oh, of course. Well, maybe we can do something tonight, Gary, but for now, we need to get back to work. It's one o'clock."

The elevator doors open, and after people get off, we get on. I say, "Should I meet you after work, and we can decide what to do?"

Patting my shoulder, "Ya know what? Working out something for tonight is half-ass. It'll be smarter if we go with our original plan and discuss possibilities tomorrow at lunch. I'm definitely interested, but not for tonight; it's, um, too quick. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Okay, you're right, Mark. I'll talk to you tomorrow," and I get off the elevator on the third floor, only then remembering I need to report to the loading dock. Fuck!

While waiting for an elevator to take me to the basement, I confirmed to myself that Mark was right. Our first date should be planned better than squeezing it in tonight. I'm feeling good he invited me, although there are no guarantees we'll hit it off. George and I are great friends, but the sexy stuff never took off between us. I should say, it never took off for me.

Getting on an elevator, I push the button for 'sub-level 1,' trying to remember if level 1 is the loading dock level. People get off at the main floor; then, I'm the only one in the car as it goes down one more level. I get off the elevator car and look around, saying, "Hello."

This isn't the right level for the loading docks; it's a huge storage area with two offices to my right. One has 'BUILDING MAINTENANCE' on the door. The other door has 'SECURITY' in big letters. I knock on the maintenance door and hear, "It's open!"

Obviously, I'm hoping that was Morrison who just spoke. Then it occurs to me I don't know if Morrison is this guy's first or last name. Opening the door... yes, it was him. Morrison is sitting at a desk with a lunch spread out in front of him. He's looking at me with a questioning expression on his face.

We look at one another for two seconds, and then, in a very deep voice, he says, "Are you lost, son?" He sounded nice, not grumpy the way he was when Fredrico introduced me to him a few months ago.

I say, "I don't think I'm lost. Maggie told me to report to you, Mr. Morrison."

He smiles a nice smile, "Morrison is my first name, son. My last name is Evans, but you don't need to call me Mr. Evans. Morry or Morrison will do fine, and I remember you now; you're Brant, right?"

I shake my head, "No, I'm Grant. I mean, no. That's what Maggie calls me, but my name is Gary Wallingford. Um, I'm supposed to work for you the rest of the week or maybe longer."

He smiles, "Wow, she is actually assigning you to help my temp with the fifth loading dock bay project. Haha, that's surprising but marvelous, Grant! I know Malcolm will be happy."

Morrison seems so nice now, and with his gray frizzy hair and shortish gray beard, he looks like a younger version of the actor Morgan Freeman. Um, but who's Malcolm?

Morry says, "I'm only halfway through my lunch, but you don't need me to hold your hand. Go down one more level and then walk all the way to your right. That's where you'll be working. Tell the temporary fellow, Malcolm, that you'll be helping him the rest of the week. He knows what needs to be done, so do what he tells you, and I'll check in with you boys around four o'clock. It's great having you working on this project, Grant. Dress for it tomorrow. Ah, well, I'll let Malcolm fill you in."

I nod, "Yes, Sir," and hesitate, waiting to see if he has more to tell me. When he takes a bite out of a fat roast beef sandwich, I say, "Thank you," and leave. I don't know why I thanked him. Maybe for being nice. Now, if Malcolm is nice, maybe this won't be so bad.

Taking the elevator down another level, I get off and walk to my right until I see a guy sitting at the extreme end of the loading dock, his legs hanging over it. He's looking at a video on a ten-inch Apple iPad Pro and eating his lunch. If I'm smelling what I think I am, his lunch is a tuna fish sandwich. They obviously take a later lunch hour down here than Mark and I take.

He's a young-looking African American guy with very dark brown skin and large hair on top with the sides and back shaved like Mark Jones' hairdo. I mumble a question, "Malcolm?"

He turns, leaving the video he was watching playing on his iPad. "Yep, Malcolm White. Who are you?"

My eyes stare at the video as I mutter, "Um, Grant. Ah, no, I'm Gary Wallingford, and I'm supposed to help you clean out the, um, ah..."

He looks at the video, then back at me, asking, "Haven't you ever seen two guys fucking? That's my black dick up Tyrone's skinny ass. So, you're supposed to help me, huh? Did my boss tell you that?"

His boner in the video looks about the length of Billy's and mine, or maybe a little shorter but much, much fatter. His messing around friend, Tyrone, is also African American, except his skin is pale tan, almost as light as George's skin. Light-skin Tyrone is bent over with his hands on his knees. His body rocks forward with each hard thrust of Malcolm's hard-looking cock. There's no sound from the video, but Malcolm and Tyrone don't appear to be saying anything anyway.

Malcolm has a colorful bandanna, the kind that looks like a cowboy outlaw's mask, around his neck. I've seen some people use that type of bandana as a Covid mask. After glancing at the running video again, then at me, Malcolm turns off his iPad and asks again, "Did my boss tell you to come down here?"

"Is your boss Morrison Evans?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then, yeah, your boss sent me down here. You're supposed to tell me what to do. I'll be, I guess, working for you all week and maybe next week too."

Standing up, he's taller than me, but not a lot taller. He's about six-feet-one, which makes him about three inches taller than me, and he's as slim as me. He takes a step nearer to me and nods at the blank screen of the iPad Pro he's holding, "Did you like that video, Grant?"

"Whaddaya mean, did I like it? I didn't see it!"

He rolls his eyes, mutters, "Yeah, right," and then casually pinches some curly hairs at the front of my head. I'm making a face as he rubs the hair between his thumb and forefinger, murmuring, "Holy fuck, you've got pretty hair, and it feels like silk."

Then, letting go of my hair, he cups his hand under my chin, mumbling, "Well, I sure do need the help, but we don't need to start right this second. We've got ten minutes left of our lunch hour."

What's with this guy getting in my personal space? Stepping back from him a little bit, I mutter, "Um, I've already had my lunch hour."

"Yeah, well, you'll be working on my schedule now, Grant. Let's go into the disgusting fifth loading dock bay, and, if you want, your ass can experience what Tyrone's ass felt last Saturday night when we made the video, the one you said you didn't see."

Shocked and alarmed at this guy's forwardness and outrageous proposal, I gulp, then incongruously ask, "So, um, I guess you and Tyrone are gay friends, huh?"

Nodding, he says, "We're gay, yeah, and yeah, we're friends. We grew up together. So, are you interested in taking my fat black cock up your ass as Tyrone did in the video?"

Malcolm's skin is not black. It's dark brown, very smooth, and velvety-looking. He has an earring in his left earlobe, and his facial features are part African and part European. The combination gives him a handsome face and his eyes multi-shades of brown. Strikingly pretty eyes!

Continuing to be flustered by his offer, the only thing I can think of to say is another incongruous question. "Um, if you don't mind me asking, how old are you and Tyrone?"

Malcolm turns away from me, shaking his head slightly. After gathering up his leftover lunch trash, he dumps it in a trash barrel; then, sounding annoyed, he mutters, "He's the same age as me, twenty-two; why?"

"Oh, ah, I don't know. Neither of you looks that old, that's all. So, what are we doing? Um, I, ah..."

His matter-of-fact suggestion that I might like taking his stubby, fat cock up my ass, was said as if nothing unusual is happening here, has me more than a little discombobulated. Still, it is fascinating to witness a total stranger being this casually cool and laid back as they're offering to fuck me. It makes me wonder if Malcolm's on drugs. His eyes are clear, and his speech is precise, so he probably isn't on drugs. Actually, he sounds like a college professor when he speaks.

Holding the iPad Pro in one hand, Malcolm puts his other hand on the back of my neck and mumbles, "I'll assume your silence means you want me to do it, but you want to appear hesitant. You want me to try convincing you, right? No games, though... please." He squeezes the back of my neck a little, giving me chills, which reminded me of my old boss at Weis Markets doing that.

I walk with him, mesmerized by him as, in his deadpan, flat delivery, Malcolm says, "I recognized that look of longing in your eyes when you watched my video. Plus, you licked your lips, so I figured I'd offer to fuck your ass the way I did Tyron's. We have almost ten minutes and infinite privacy in which to do that."

Stumbling over my own feet, I look up at him, then say in a very serious manner, "I could be wrong, Malcolm, but I do not believe I licked my lips. Other than that, how did you know? What gave me away, um, that I'm gay? That is a private matter, by the way, and not generally known here at work, and I'd like that to remain the case."

Providing a little bit of pressure on my neck, he's guiding me inside the fifth bay, which is about twenty feet by twenty feet and packed with all kinds of junk. There are boxes and broken furniture, filing cabinets, and I don't know what else. It's a much larger version of Billy's garage, except something in here has gone rotten and smells bad.

Malcolm pulls up his bandanna/scarf, covering his nose and mouth. He pulls another bandanna from his back pocket and hands it to me. Using both hands, I cover my nose and lower face with it, then try tying it behind my head. Malcolm pushes my fingers away and ties it for me, mumbling, "Come over to the side where I've cleared a space to work on the wall."

We stop at a smallish open space. Malcolm lets go of me and says, "The junk here is mostly restaurant items from the twentieth-floor cafe that closed a year ago because of Covid. Hopefully, there's something in one of these cabinets we can use for a lubricant."

A lubricant? I can't imagine why I'm going along with this. We shuffle over, avoiding pots and pans. Opening a bent cabinet door requires two hands, then Malcolm mutters, "Yep, I thought I saw this earlier," and he grabs a mostly-full bottle of olive oil from a number of bottles on the floor of the cabinet. Frowning with concentration, he tries pulling the stopper from the bottle, mumbling, "Get your pants down, Grant."

Ha-ha, yeah, right!

Oh, who am I kidding? I guess it's been agreed that I do want to feel Malcolm's fat, not black, but dark brown cock up my ass. I don't recall verbally agreeing to it, but yeah, there's something irresistible about Malcolm's demeanor. He's attractive, sexy, and, um, original. And, uh-huh, I'm well aware I was super attracted to the blond boy on the train this morning. It's just a coincidence, though, that two potentially irresistibly hot sexy gay guys would wander into my life on the same day. Well, it's not been established that the blond boy is gay, but the way things have been going for me this past year, he probably is.

Malcolm shrugged, then mumbled, "Damn, this mask doesn't do much to hide the smell," and he pulled mine down, then his down, saying, "We won't notice the smell after a minute or so. Get over here with me, Grant."

Totally aware that this is not anything remotely approaching a normal situation, I nonetheless move to where Malcolm indicated, which is against the studs in about a six-foot square open space. He mutters, "Good," and then pulls his zipper down and takes it out. Whoa, that looks even fatter in real life!

He looks at me, calmly asking, "What's the holdup? We don't have a lot of time. Get your pants down."

He's got to be kidding, right? But if so, why is he stroking his stubby-looking, fat, heavy-looking dick? It's at least five inches long but looks shorter because it's so fat! It's fascinating to see, and I'm staring like an idiot at it.

He looks at me with raised eyebrows, saying, "Your pants, Grant." I go, "Oh, yeah, my pants..." and pull my khaki pants and underpants down to my knees. Then I lean over, putting my hands on my knees as Tyrone did in the video.

After a few seconds with no activity from Malcolm, I look back and see he's having a problem with the stopper on the olive oil bottle. He finally gets the top off and holds the opened bottle a few feet above my ass. NO!

Well, what did I think he was going to do with the oil?

A stream of olive oil splatters on my buttocks. The oil quickly covered both butt cheeks running down under them. Another stream comes from the bottle, this one running down my ass crack, the oil continuing under me to my nuts and down the back of my thighs, drooling down to soak into my underpants that are bunched at my knees. Then the oil soaks through my underpants to make a greasy stain on my khakis, also bunched at my knees.

It all happened in less than three seconds, leaving me speechless but furious. Malcolm, nonplussed, drools more olive oil on my ass, wiggling the bottle from left to right to get full coverage again. Putting the bottle down, he deliberately spanks my buttocks. Long swing of his arm, then "SMACK!" against my ass. The spanking creates a spray splattering oil droplets. After five or six smacks, he mutters, "These pats on your ass are to tenderize your asshole a little. Make it easier to take my fat black cock."

He smacks my ass two more times, saying in his monotone delivery, "Tenderizing it, but it also always gives me a hard-on spanking a submissive white boy's ass."

Shockingly, somehow this mind-numbing series of events got my dick hard. Making a face because my butt cheeks are stinging, I put my hand back there for no good reason, and Malcolm takes hold of it. Holding hands, he thrusts his hard, fat cock head past my sphincter muscle. Still holding my hand, he pushes his entire stubby hard dark brown boner inside me. It hurt like hell, hurt more than any previous messing around experience, and I cried out, "Ahh! OW! Goddammit, that hurt!"

This was my first ever uncomfortably painful experience taking a cock up my ass.

It was a unique kind of pain, though, and I felt streaking bolts of unique sensations in my rectum. When Malcolm's hard five inches of really fat cock was fully impaling me, he let go of my hand and grabbed my waist with both hands. Holding me in place, he pulled his boner back, then got right into fucking me hard and fast, grunting with every shortish thrust, olive oil splattering droplets in an oily spray all around us.

Pleasure vibrations moved out from my rectum to all parts of my body, flooding my brain and blocking out common sense. The unusual hurt was like a background noise, that unique pain hovering above the pleasure and enhancing it somehow. My dick, sticking straight out, is so hard it feels like the skin will split. To add to the unexpected thrill, with every hard thrust, Malcolm's low-hanging balls swung forward and collided with the back of my scrotum, ringing my bell with another kind of thrilling stab of pain like a gong from Big Ben going off every two seconds.

This is the first anal sex I've experienced where the pain almost equaled the intense pleasure. Sexual pain is different from, for example, broken arm pain, and I was soon embracing it.

It is so unexpectantly exciting to experience different variations of the same sexy messing around I've become used to. I love messing around with new gay friends. My cock, as I said, is as hard as it's ever been and sticking straight out, throbbing and dripping precum as I'm moaning, "Mm, mm, mm, ahh, Malcolm, Omigod, ummm! Ahh, fuck..."

He said nothing, just grunted with the effort of this energetic messing around, which, unfortunately, didn't last nearly as long as I wanted it to. When I blew my load, I sounded like a girl who had a mouse run up her leg, high-pitched squealing, sort of a shrill girlie scream as I climaxed. It was a hard stream of cum pumping out and almost catching the head of my dick on fire, burning so hot flying out.

Malcolm filled me up to overflowing ten seconds later and immediately pulled his short barrel of dark brown cock out of my ass, spanked my ass four times, and then used both hands to pull up my underpants. They were soaked with olive oil, now mixing with Malcolm's cum as it drooled from my rectum. Then he put his sloppy dick back in his pants and said, as if he didn't care one way or another, "I hope that was okay."

In this weirdest of all the weird dizzy trances I've experienced this past year, in a mesmerizing daze, I pulled up my oil-stained khakis, muttering, "Uh-huh, that was okay."

Soon, I began coming to my senses and becoming concerned about the huge olive oil stain not only on the seat of my khakis but all around the zipper too. It will get worse when the big load of cum Malcolm shot inside me begins drooling out for real. Yes, this is totally fucked up, and it was totally fucked up from the second it started right up until right now.

Spreading my legs, my crotch totally sticky and dripping with a mixture of oil and Malcolm's cum, I say, "Passively allowing you to do that was, without a doubt, the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life."

Talking louder and louder, yelling now, "What the hell was I thinking? What were YOU thinking, Malcolm? Look at the 'effing oil stains on my pants, and my underpants are soaking wet. Plus, it's going to get a lot worse when all your jism drools out of my ass."

Looking uninterested, he's wiping something off his finger on the side of a big cardboard box, the one I shot my load against. Shrugging, he mutters, "Yeah? Well, you should have thought of all that before asking me to give it to you up the ass. Did you think I wouldn't climax?"

"What? I didn't ask you for shit... oh, forget about whose fault it was! Help me do something about this, Malcolm."

He lightly swats the back of my head, "Oh, alright, ya big baby. This way, Grant," and he wiggles his finger to get me to follow him. Walking sideways, we make our way almost to the far back wall of this large, junk-filled space where, on their sides, are three racks of clothes, but it's all women's clothing. Malcolm, looking as bored as ever, holds up a number of women's slacks. Finally, holding up a red pair of woman's wool pants, "These might fit you."

He tosses them to me, adding, "Could you hurry and change, Grant? I don't like taking longer than an hour for lunch. Our lunch break was over a couple of minutes ago."

What the fuck? This was his idea!

Giving him a dirty look, I kick off my sneakjers; then, hopping from one foot to the other, I pull off my khakis and jockey underpants that are sagging in oily/cum wetness. The wool pants feel scratchy with a zipper on the side that won't do me any good.

The pants sort of fit, at least, but the ass and hips are too large and sag noticeably. It's an improvement over my oil and cum stained khakis, but not by much. Malcolm, still looking bored, puts my khakis in a plastic bag, mumbling, "Don't forget to bring these home with you."

I'm pissed off at his callousness, but mostly I'm pissed off at myself. As I told Malcolm, this is by far the stupidest thing I've ever done. Why didn't I object when I saw that 'effing bottle of oil? Why did I pull my pants down when he told me to? Why did I do that... why, why, why?

While I'm steaming mad, Malcolm's acting as if nothing unusual happened. He looks around, then nods his head and mumbles, "It doesn't appear Morrison will be showing up until later. Okay, by default, I'm the boss here, so let's get to working, bro."

Not paying attention to him, I'm trying to get the lady's pants lower on my hips so the oil and cum doesn't soak through these pants too. Malcolm smacks the back of my head, "Grant, for Christ's sake, stop fucking around with those pants and grab a broom. Let's get all this shit swept up."

I'm giving him a glaring stare, so he asks, "What?"

He points to a push broom, "Use that push broom. First, you need to sweep up all the insulation that blew out on the loading dock. Get all that shit swept up, and I'll tell you what to do after that."

I start to say, fuck you, but, shaking my head once, like, never mind, I keep a pissed-off expression on my face but get the broom. The sweeping creates a dust storm all around us, so I pull up the cowboy bandit mask covering my nose and mouth again. It's soon wet, though, from my damp exhales as it heats up in here. The worse part, though, is the chafing between my legs and on both sides of my scrotum from constant movement in the wet, oily cum that's accumulated on the wool slacks.

Malcolm seems oblivious to my discomfort, but he must know he shot a huge load of cum up my ass and knows it will be drooling out all afternoon. Ah, he knows, but he doesn't give a shit. Sweeping and cursing under my breath. Then, I don't let Malcolm see me have a short crying jag, totally pissed off and disappointed in myself for letting this happen. How high will my humiliation reach when I'm wearing this outfit home on the train and bus?

On top of all that, my asshole is open so wide it's freaking me out. Every step and every movement feels alien because my anus is stretched open so much. What if it won't close?

Oh man, I'm so pissed off, sweeping like a madman, dust motes in my eyes, particles of insulation in my hair and on my shirt. I spend some time worrying that I might be losing my mind as a result of overdosing on gay sex. Well, that's over now!

Yes, that's over because I am going to abstain from sex for, um, at least a month. I'll tell Billy that I'm bordering on sex maniac behavior, and, um, I'm totally not even going to be messing around with Pat and Barns. I'm totally, totally forgetting about messing around with those two, and definitely no more messing around with Malcolm... that goes without saying! Messing around with anybody is so far out of the question, um...

Hmm, maybe I should continue messing around with Billy, though. I don't want to let him down. Um, but that will be all the messing around I'm doing, period! Fuck this! I'm not a sex pervert!

After what seemed like ten hours of sweeping, cursing, inhaling disgusting dust through my mask, and mumbling under my breath, Malcolm stopped working. He took off his gloves, leaned over, and used both hands to ruffle through his fluffy Afro hairdo getting insulation fluffing off and drifting to the floor for me to sweep up. Making a face, then grinning, he mumbles, really friendly-like, "Can you believe this shitty job we've got, Grant?"

My frowning at him has no effect on him. He ruffles through his hair again, then says, "It's three o'clock, so we can take a fifteen-minute break. Yesterday I got a soda from the main floor. Do you want one?"

It's as if we didn't do that insane fuck. Still not speaking, I glare at him some more, now blaming him entirely for the bizarre situation I'm in. Ignoring his question, carrying the broom, I follow him as he walks toward the open area on the loading dock. Taking off his mask and inhaling the clean, fresh air, he says, "Omigod, this job sucks, huh?"

I ask, "How the 'eff could you do that to me? That horseshit with the oil! What kind of a prick does something like that?"

He stops, turns around, "Hey, what the fuck, dude? Calm yourself down. Um, you're not inferring you didn't want me to fuck you, are you? It looked to me as if you couldn't get enough of my black cock. You acted as if you hadn't had sex in months, and you were in ecstasy through the whole pity fuck I gave you. Yeah, I felt it was a pity fuck for the new girlie-looking guy. I did you a huge favor. So what if you got some olive oil on your pants; so what, ya big baby?"

Oddly, there wasn't an ounce of anger in his voice when he said all that. As he talked, he kept ruffling his Afro hair getting insulation fiber out. It sounded almost as if he was on the verge of chuckling about it, as if he and I were kidding about this entire abortion of an afternoon.

My face almost burst out in flames as I yelled, "You delusional egomaniac! You're a psycho if you thought doing that was a favor for me. Plus, I don't need a pity fuck from you or anyone else."

Nothing phases this guy! He snorts out a chuckle, waves a hand at me, then, taking loose change from his pocket, in a pleasant conversational voice, he asks, "Do you want to flip to see who gets the sodas from the main floor?"

I scream, "What? Sodas? Fuck a whole bunch of sodas! I want to know why you took advantage of me and poured oil on me and my clothes. Humiliating me with that 'effing oil. Ruining my clothes. I need to take both a train and a bus ride to get home. How do you think I'll feel wearing a woman's bright red baggy wool pants going home, huh!"

He says, "Okay, okay! I can see you're upset. I'll get the sodas this time. Tomorrow it's your turn to do it, though. What kind of soda do you want? Coke, Pepsi, orange, root beer, what's your preference?"

Rubbing my face, I mumble, "What planet are you from? How am I going to go about getting home tonight? I can't wear oil and cum soaked 'effing woman's wool pants!"

Malcolm nods, "Oh, yeah. Uh-huh, they are obviously woman's slacks. Well, how about if I give you a ride home after work? Where do you live?"

"Huh? What? You'll give me a ride home?"

Walking to the freight elevator, Malcolm looks back at me and says, "Sure, why wouldn't I? We'll talk about it when I get the sodas. Is a Coke okay for you?"

Holy shit! Omigod, I feel so relieved. Nodding, "Yes, Coke, and thank you, Malcolm!"

Malcolm's not a bad guy. He's sort of a space cadet, floating in outer space a little bit, but he's offering to give me a ride home! That makes up for a lot!

He comes back with two sixteen-ounce plastic bottles of Coke, and we sit at the end of the dock, as far away from the room with insulation remnants still floating in the air as we can get. My anus is still fairly wide open and feeling strange against the loading dock, but I can tell it's not as open as it was right after Malcolm pulled out.

I squirm my ass on the hard dock as Malcolm is handing me a Coke, asking me, "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Shaking my head, "Not at all; I can go for a smoke myself."

We light up, me a Marlboro and Malcolm a mentholated Salem cigarette. Exhaling, he says, "So, where'd you say you lived?"

Gulping down a few swallows of ice-cold Coke, I say, "Springfield," and he nods as I'm anxiously waiting for the decision. When he doesn't say anything, I look at him, worried that I live too far out of his way.

He sees me watching him and asks, "What?"

"Is Springfield too far out of your way?"

He finished his Coke and went, "Damn, I should have got two of these motherfucking Cokes. It's hot back in that cave, huh?"

Shrugging, "Um, yeah, it sucks. Um, so, what do you think about giving me a ride home?"

"Fuck, Grant, I live in Darby. From Darby to Springfield is a four-mile, six-minute drive. I'll drive you home and pick you up in the morning to drive you to work. I mean, if you want me to."

If I want him to?

I'm speechless, smiling and staring at him. There is no animosity toward him now. I reach over and fluff his hair, grinning at him and get this warm sizzling shiver up my back thinking back to our messing around, then say, "You're a good-looking motherfucker, ain'tcha, Malcolm?"

He shrugs, then looks at me, "Yeah, I am. And you're girlie cute."

I do not look girlie, but I hold my tongue, and he sucks the last drip of Coke from his bottle, then says, "It'll be cool having company during that bitch of a ride to and from work."

Nodding, I say, "Yeah? Jeez, thanks, Malcolm! I hate the bus and train rides. Um, ah, and I'm really sorry I was such a cunt about the olive oil and everything. You were right, bro, that messing around was the best."

He looks at his empty Coke, so I give him my half-full one. He nods, "Hey, nice move, Grant! Thanks," and he flicks his cigarette butt out onto the blacktop below, then drinks most of the soda, burps, and adds, "What do you mean by messing around? Do you mean our fucking?"

I go, "Uh-huh, yeah, our fucking. Um, you were a very, um, expert as the top guy. And you were right, too; I did sort of ask for it. Or hinted, I guess... um..."

He shrugs, "Yeah, I picked up you hinting for it if that's what it was. I'd call it more like you wrote in big letters on the wall your eagerness to feel my fat hard cock in your ass."

I go, "Well, I don't know why you'd say that. As a matter of fact, I didn't hint anything..."

Nope, I stop. Who cares if he thinks I asked for that messing around? The only thing that matters is I'm getting a ride to and from work! In my mind, he can do no wrong as long as he's driving me to and from work.

I stopped talking before I said something I'd regret, but he wasn't listening to me anyway. He's looking at his iPad again. So, smiling at him, I pull a piece of insulation from his big, puffy, soft hair and say, "Dude, I feel lucky to be working for you! Did I mention how handsome you are?"

He scrolls through stuff on his iPad, shrugs, then mutters, "Yeah, ya did. Um, I'm sorry for throwing in your face that it was a pity fuck. It was sort of one, though, but not totally. Um, and speaking of that. We've got five minutes left in our afternoon break, and the olive oil bottle is half full, so if you wanna..."

Flicking my cigarette butt near Malcolm's smoldering butt in the driveway, I ask, "Gee, boss, do you mean messing around again right now?"

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com

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