It was five minutes pass the six a.m. start of the Breakfast Hop morning rush and Damien Dieters had still not arrived for work.
Dale McGreavus, wrought with anger and sick with the boys continued insubordination, told his three cooks through the food window to keep up the good work and assured the host of his immediate return, charging her with the extra task of expediting the food to the servers. The old woman’s blank face left him unconvinced and he cringed as the front door of the restaurant flung open and entered a twelve top, followed by an array of other couples dressed finely for Sunday morning services. But the manager had to go, he had to call Damien or assure that another server was available to fill his spot if he was not to show up – which was likely for the seasonal worker.
“Take care of the customers, Agnes,” he pleaded. “I’ll be right back.” And with that he quickly rounded server’s wall, bore through the kitchen, and out of the back doors. On the loading dock he already had his phone and contact ready to dial.
But before he could, the stale scent of menthol flavored tobacco had encroached upon his senses. He followed the scent and transparent trail of smoke to its source; he stood pointedly at the bottom of the loading ramp; his skin tight black corduroys added significant depth the boy’s lithe hips and bubble bottom; his tiny package was compact and tight against his left thigh; he was drenched in a thin cloud of smoke that glowed a deep yellow in the rising sun.
But Dale could not appreciate Damien’s unique beauty. He was furious that the boy even had dared to show up late for his third morning shift in a row, more or less spark a cigarette before he clocked in.
Damien turned to face the tall bulk of muscled man that was his boss and owner of the Breakfast Hop. To the twenty year old youth the man looked like a hulky lumberjack disguised in loafers, slacks, and tie – pretending to be a distinguished business man. He had little respect for the military veteran, cared even less for his victories and prowess in Afghanistan, and the milky glaze over his baggy eyes, pale and spotted hairless face exhausted from a night of rolling gave his continuance no trace of adherence or patience that morning. Even the morning birds chirping and the wavering hum of cars on the highway seemed to irk the boy.
However Dale persisted conscientiously with every sense of martial vigor the marines had instilled in him (without forced cohesion) he said in a low roar, “Put that fucking cigarette out and go tend to your section.”
The foe-black haired boy balked at the notion of snuffing his cigarette only a quarter ways smoked, although a half of him was sensationalized by the immediate and stern tone of his tenacious, bald headed, wall of a boss. But he naturally gaffed, rolled his cold blue eyes, and flicked his cigarette into the parking lot before tromping by his employer and into the restaurants rear entrance. Dale could not help to notice the young half-man’s hips rigidly swaying in defiance. He would have flushed with red when Damien’s head doubled back to catch his boss staring as he walked away. Instead Dale locked his gaze, he had already been leering the boy down; violent frames of him fucking the boy into submission – like he used to do to the college grads whom thought they had it out to be officers in the core – gripped his mind for only seconds before the sound of piles of pork being dumped onto the flat iron stove sizzled him from his daydream.
Soon the restaurant was at full capacity, raucous with the clamor of patrons gossiping over coffee, the waitresses relentlessly – but somewhat quietly – menacing the cooks over the specificities of their orders, the cooks doggedly barking back their inconformity, while the busboys and dishwahers giggled and gawked as the five women servers and one male (that to Dale McGreavus’ standards was a woman nonetheless) scattered like chickens as they waited their sections with unorganized determination – he contended that he wasn’t the only one compensating with the urge to facefuck some bitching servers. Grudgingly, but shortly after, the first meals of the day were served and the restaurant was finally taut with poignant stench of fresh bacon, sausage, and baked dough coupled by the simple scent of Breakfast Hop’s house coffee.
Scores of sated churchgoers replaced scores of hollow bellied churchgoers until the morning rush had ended well into the late morning. At eleven-thirty, assured that the small residents of the town and Sunday travelers had had their fill by their mass quantities, he cut three of the morning servers, and convinced himself that he was ready to fire Damien Dieters.
The boy’s corduroy pants whispered between his thighs and catlike stride, while the heavy soles of his fatigue boots clumped a trail behind Dale McGreavus to his office at the back of the restaurant. Why the boy needed combat boots was a baffling query to the former marine. The boy had week arms and introverted chest that would likely cave in with the most minor of weight. He obviously not the outdoorsy type, McGreavus could tell that because of the heavy shone of boots’ toe. The marine could only guess for the sake of fashion, which in a modern sense had dreadfully disgusted the man and made little to any sense at all. Dale smiled cautiously at the last table of the section and was assured by them that the service, for a Goth, had been exceptional before he made the last few steps to the door of his office. He did not stop smiling, his focus intent on the nosey customers as he opened the door for Damien. But when the doors closed his face had hardened to a scowl that tensed every muscle in his large, lengthy, and hard body.
For a moment he felt as if he might have burst through the snug fit of his slacks and dress shirt and murder the insolent youth where he stood – smug and pointedly angled in the corner of the small eight by six foot office.
Mounds of contracts, towers of file boxes, countless piles of scattered paper ranging from spread sheets to employee applications mocked the employer’s organization. “Get a lot of work done in here?” Damien had softest voice of a birds tone, every word he spoke had an unintentional, even natural tune – the amiability of which was immediately lost with the reverence of whatever he said, more than likely to be an insult or smart ass remark.
Which, on a half note, was, but Dale was fed up and did not balk. “Damien your fired.” The pressure of Dale’s stomach alleviated as he relieved the words. “Give me your apron and get out of here.”
Like it was just a replay in his head (which being fired, McGreavus assumed, must have been a replay) the boy automatically removed his robe from his head. The myriad of arrangement of Pokémon, novelty, rainbow, and equality buttons the boy had pinned up and down the neck strap and across the middle base of his apron clacked and clanged with little vigor as he handed it over. The boy had made even his work uniform a beacon of flamboyance. His pale blue dress shirt was a few sizes too small even for his frail torso. But even still his, now former employer, could all but admire the boys thin but healthy, wirery yet shapely figure. Curiosity stalked behind Dale’s auburn brown eyes, unbuttoning the boy from collar to fly, lured by whatever magnificence that gave his generation so much refined, unworldly, and blindly entitled confidence.
In that moment Dale was fantasizing about breaking that confidence and repairing his poor attitude with sticky cum after he had crushed it under the weight of his stone-like build. He did not notice nor could he help the smile that reacted to that sordid imagination.
A little color had returned to Damien’s face from the morning rush and the glazed haze of his eyes was now clear and placid. He reacted little to the news at first; his expression and his demeanor showed no sign of resentment. Then, Dale had guessed, he realized that he was an adult now, with bills and obligations; a martial sense of responsibility was an irrevocable requirement with his new age and growing, although stunted maturity.
“I need my job.” The bass in his voice had darkened with building desperation. A formidable contrast to the high and eclectic tone Dale had gotten used to being chastised by. Now it was thick with remorse and pleaded thoughtful harmonies in a low and mournful pitch. “I have to make it to the end of summer. . . I won’t have anywhere to go before the term starts.”
“You have your parents,” McGreavus did not doubt. He plopped into his computer chair with ambivalence and began vainly sorting through his disarray of paperwork. For once in this miserable employer-employee relationship he had not felt emasculated; he was not slighted nor humiliated by the wicked head games of that little boy who was protected by law. Normally, or at least overseas, under the pretenses of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, McGreavus would have shown the boy true manhood on the very day his insolence began. However this land had constitutions and mandates while its people had rights and the liberty not to be raped into submissions. His victory over the boy was slight but sweet. At thirty-six he had not rejoiced for a sweeter resolve.
“Mommy and Daddy have nothing left for me; they don’t even know I’m back in town for the summer.” He replied, his voice still as low, slight with mournful desperation, but slow and seductive. Confidence washed over his expression like a revelation had warmly revealed itself from the deepest, most secluded and locked away parts of his psyche.
His seductive voice and the light bass he had added to its harmony shocked and stilled Dale all at the same time. He had been in this situation before, he knew where it was going and his dick was already pointing in that direction. But he maintained his dignity and remembered the thin walls of that small office. “Friends?” The question was airy and weak.
Damien rolled his blue eyes at the stupid question. “I’m staying with friends.” He insisted. His black bangs contrasted well against his ice blue eyes. For the first time Dale had noticed the ominous and ethereal essence of his dark hair that was cropped in the back but cut to hang low on one side of his face. The black was the theme, from his hair color to his fingernails. His porcelain skin, the antithesis of his ebon style, added well to the mystery of his demeanor what his disposition had retracted.
The almond shape of his blue eyes, the pout of his full pink lips, and the deep furrows of his brow coupled by the effortless debonair style of his speech was an entirely new side of Damien, unrevealed to Dale for uninterested proclivity. But this new Damien spoke with effervescent assertion; the color returned to the boy’s face in thin layers with each image that flashed back into Dale’s mind of ravaging and claiming the boy’s ego and he was sure that Damien saw them all from the look of anticipation building on his face.
And when he said, “I’ll do anything to keep this job,” after he had placed a hand on the inside of his boss’s thigh – that was firm beneath the taut fabric of his slacks – Dale had finally noticed the raging hard-on that distended like a heavy rod just before Damien’s fingertips.
Damien patted the tip of his boss’s clothed head which was blotted by a small sticky shade of saturation that was precum that had soaked through not only Dale’s briefs but his grey slacks too. Dale watched enchanted as the boy stuck the slick tips of his fingers into his mouth under slow bats of his eyelashes. And it was on.
Unbuckled and unzipped, Dale’s nine and half inch cock revealed itself like a blooming edifice – a straightening Tower of Pisa – until it stood tall and erect pulsing and flexing with life. His cock stood erect without the support of the marine’s fleshy abs that was not as hard as it had been in the service but still thickly toned and defined beneath a thin layer of lethargy. The marine was freshly shaved. His shaft was long, pink, and bottle thick. Torrents of blood brimmed veins pulsed their ways up, down, and around the glorious slab like scattered trails of cataracts that jerked the mouthwatering organ in rhythmic spasms. Wholesome, full, and healthy balls hung like weighty flesh grenades over the support of his briefs he had barely pulled down. Damien wanted to see them explode.
Without another word the boy’s pouty pink lips wrapped and worked the fat sensitive head of his boss’s dick. Damien sucked with great force until he was convinced that he had nurtured all the precum now available. He caught the warm, sticky, transparent fluid in mouth but did not ingest it; instead he went on to swallow the length of the cock in one fluid gulp, all nine and eleven-twelfth inches pressed his soft pallet and pushed pass his uvula until Dale could feel the boys rough lipped epiglottis gagging just before the ultra-receptive tip of his dick. The boy maintained the heavy length of his employer’s penis and murmured to vibrate the closed walls of his voice box and further stimulated the long cock, well in the deep of the boy’s throat.
The feeling was all Dale could muster without cumming so he pulled his length from the boy’s rigid throat. The sensation of retracting his dick from the boy’s deep well of warm salvia was mind numbing, the inner ridges of his throats anatomy catching and sparking burst of electrified fervor that ricochet through his towering bodying. Damien reacted with a deep gasp coupled by the sound of spit, membrane, and the soft pallets of his mouth. His eyes were watered and his face was flushed red but his expression was wanting.
The boy had an affliction for sucking and he was a master of his vice. His fingernails dug into Dale’s pelvis as he clawed the marine’s briefs from his tightly formed abdomen and groin. His loins hung like a marvelous set of bells housed in salty tissue lightly coated with strands of platinum hued hair. The boy pushed Dale’s fat cock against his midsection and gnawed the marine’s heavy clackers until they sounded a deep moan that exited his employer’s mouth in pure elation.
The marine threw his head back in a circle, looked down, and parted his dreamy eyes to glimpse through a haze of pleasure a sly and accomplished smile on Damien’s face, a sight all too familiar for the man that was just minutes before hell bent on ridding himself of the mischievous juvenile-half-man. He grunted in utter repulsion just as he grabbed the boy his earlobes and forced him from a fluid motion of lip stroking to full on throat fucking.
Dale grunted lowly and heavily after deep breaths of aggression; Damien gagged the sounds of a tormented animal in even lower grunts; his face turned a beat red; his nostrils violently flared with each struggle for breath; and four steady torrents of salty streams (one from each corner of each eye) blasted and carved trails down his bright rosy cheeks. The marine felt like he was literally choking the boy to death with his girth, but the marine also judged by both of the boy’s hands groping the cheeks of his thick and fury ass, Damien was enjoying it.
No matter how hard, how inconsistent, or how deep Dale had forced himself into the boys mouth, balls deep was just not enough to break the wanton little pig. Even with a full two handed grip of the boys silky black mane, the sound of the boys now gleamed coated cheeks clapping against his rock hard pelvis as he pounded away, was still not enough. Damien’s hadn’t even undressed his own cock to stroke the tense pleasure from it; Dale wasn’t even sure if the boy was hard. But that mattered little to him, the gothic creature was not his type anyway, he was rock hard, the muscles of his dick seemed like they were bursting from their skin seams, but not with attraction, with devotion to break that incorrigible ego. Dale decided it would not be broken nor penetrated from the mouth.
So he yanked the boy from his cock and Damien grimaced from the sudden pain of whiplash. But he stared back almost dissatisfied, the white of his eyes were a menacing red that contrasted heavily against his sky blue irises. He was truly a devil; Dale McGrevus had finally persuaded himself.
With a fist full of hair he pulled the boy to his feet. Damien reacted submissively and rose to a deep kiss so dispassionate, so rough, and so distant that when Dale removed the boy’s face from his own he noticed spots of blood on his lip where his teeth had cracked the skin. “Turn around,” he demanded. “Bend the fuck over.”
For the first time Dale was received by an expression from Damien that resembled a startled air of surprise and concern. “I-I’m a virgin.” The statement was airy and simple and his casual high pitched feminine tone had returned.
The marine smiled for a method of breaking the young stallion had finally revealed itself. “Fine, keep sucking.” He lifted and spun the boy upside down into an inverted 69 position. Damien laughed a soft and boyish laugh when Dale flipped the boy, confident he had escaped punishment.
By the tightness of his hole and the marine’s own experience, he accurately gauged the boy was in fact a virgin. And when Dale’s tongue penetrated the boys sweet pink barriers Damien reacted like fire, wailing and whipping his lithe muscle of body in sheer pleasure as he tried to sate his mouth’s appetite for dick. But what he did not know was that Dale was only half devouring the nectar of his boyhood, instead he was adding to it, more lubing the hole deeply than rimming it. He did not stop until his mouth was dry as cotton. The anatomy of the twenty-year-olds throat upside down was an entirely different sensation for Dale, but he had new and pressing motives of domestication he was dying to tend. He bit down on the boy’s inner cheek hard and Damien unsheathed the cock from this mouth and moaned. At that moment Dale flipped him back over on his feet, pinned his arm to his back and forced him to bend over the office desk and into full submission.
“No!” Damien tried to plea but it was too late. Big, strong, and rigidly calloused hands cupped his mouth and Dale began to work his way into the boy’s tight entrance.
“Don’t say another word,” his voice was heavy with bass on the back of Damien’s ear. His masculinity was settling the boy, but not fast enough. With his free hand Damien attempted to grab whatever was in his reach, sheets of paper flew wayward with his opposition. So Dale pinned that hand behind his back and sternly pleaded, “just relax. It’ll hurt less.” He reassured in vain, not really caring if it hurt at all or not.
He thrashed and fought violently in resistance, but once his boss had successfully pressed his golf ball sized head in with surprising ease thanks to his loads of saliva he had dumped earlier, and the pain had ebbed, slowly his body eased to obedience. The immense pleasure coupled by striking pain moved Damien’s curiosity to allow the hulky man to have his way. But before Dale could enter any further a knock came at the office door.
They were less than a foot away from the door, still partially locked together, when the chopped voice of Agnes stated her presence as the wooden portal began to part from its frame. Before the door had even cracked an inch Dale freed the boy’s hands of his grip and slammed the door in Agnes’ face, whether she fell or whatever happened, Dale did not care.
“Go away Agnes, I’m having pertinent conversation regarding someone’s employment!” You would have never told by the casual tone of his voice or suspected any wrong doing. Or that he was partially clothed but for his slacks that were around his ankles, a pair of knee high dress socks, and a disheveled unbutton shirt; Damien was buck, every item of clothing ripped from his gist, and strewn over a desk.
He looked the door, with the tip of his dick still tightly fitted in the boy’s entrance. The grip of Damien’s spit slick boyhood was not something Dale was willing to pass up so easily, so when he caught the boys flailing arms and pinned it behind his back again, he whispered with the greatest sense of accomplishment. “You want your job, right?”
And he did, for before he had time to answer, Dale unmercifully rammed the length and girth of his nine and a half inch cock balls deep into the boy’s virgin hole. Dale was impressed that he had not had to cuff the boy’s mouth or muffle his cry at all. He took the cock with the purest of dignity and showed the immense pain of his rectum being stretched and ripped all from the anguished expressions of his face. He only moaned of either acute affliction or of listless indulgence. But he endured with grace all the more. If the boy had had a hymen Dale had shattered it and everything attached to it.
The pressure of his cock throbbed with great pulsations under the intense grip of the boys insides. Damien felt ever juxtaposing throbs of the man’s cock inside him, the walls of his boyhood surged in response.
Damien’s back was a canvas of irregular and amateur tattoos, if not done in prison done in someone’s basement or garage. The shabby art ranged from black crosses, dead trees whose branches, at their tips, turned to birds, countless and colorful stars that formed no constellations, and much more. Dale’s attention faded with the pace of his fucking and soon the boy’s entire back was a blur of color as the marine plowed deeper into him until he was loosened and unbearably sore. Dale hadn’t even noticed that Damien had bitten into his arms to help consolidate the pain, his teeth had sunk deep but he was sure not draw any blood. But soon the worse was over and the boy was fully receptive, at that point of wanting, Dale removed his cock and began to coax himself with long strokes of his gleaming slab in the order of releasing a hot and sticky load.
He had half expected Damien to just lay there to gather his thoughts and what dignity that had remained with him, but the boy hopped off the desk and dropped to his knees and before Dale could blink his cock had disappeared into the boy’s mouth and he was fucking Damien’s face again. It was not long before he spilled his seed in sporadic jerks of fruition into and down his employee’s insensitive jugular. Damien smacked and licked his fingers and whatever traces of seed he had left on Dale’s body.
When he was finished, he clothed himself, and left the restaurant with his apron on the pretense of another day and a saved job. But he did not leave with the same jolly, indignant confidence he was so known for. Instead he walked with martial grace, his facial expression heavy, austere, and indifferent, even matured with the last few minutes, Dale had noticed. Whether it was for the sake of the restaurant and her patrons – which there was very few of in the hours of intermission between morning and lunch – Dale never knew. But the day continued just as fluidly and with little tension. The other employees were assured that he had squared the attitude from the devil himself, and that he had only sent him home for the day.
When he returned for his shift the following morning his section was clean and stocked within the first fifteen minutes of clocking in, which he did at 6am sharp. Although he had still dressed the same, he never wore a sour face of insolence from that day on. He was no longer cheery and overtly happy or deeply wrought with anger; his emotions no longer fluctuated like the highs and lows of rollercoasters. And when he addressed his boss, he did so with utmost respect, and reacted to his demands with the purest of loyalties.
But the one thing that stuck with Dale the most even after the seasonal worker went back to college that fall was the wonting looks Damien had given him every day since that day, that same look of dissatisfaction he had on his knees, minus its back drop of arrogant plunder. In its place, and on top of that ever wanting expression that became his new custom was a dreamy affliction to Dale. He had lingered dazedly around his boss like a puppy so socially deprived. His employer was his new drug and the boy was relapsing every day, and which each day he was thoroughly denied because he was simply not the Marine’s type – so set in his feminine ways.
And so, when the next summer promised his return, Dale had ambivalently waited in vain. The boy did not come back to work for the Breakfast Hop and the marine had finally rid himself of the confused product of an even more confused generation.
Jockey321 on A4A