by J. M. Snyder
With one hand working at his open zipper, Mr. Sanford rims my trembling hole, nipping playfully with his teeth. Saliva trickles down the hidden flesh between my ass and cock and he licks it away. Opening wide, he takes my balls into his mouth from behind, his breath cooling the paths down which he’s tasted me. Then he’s between my legs, below my balls, his tongue stretching out to lick at my hard length.
“Please,” I sob. Beneath my mouth, the leather has grown damp and warm, pliant, the smell so animalistic that it makes me want to hump the chair if I have to, anything at this point to get off. Flexing my buttocks, I reach down to stroke my cock and find him in the way. He takes one of my fingers into his mouth, sucking it, then catches my cock between his lips and I feel his shoulders against the back of my thighs as he trails down my length in search of the tip. Blindly I touch his face, my fingers slipping into his ear before finding his mouth. I push down my cock, angling the tip towards him, and when he finally takes me in, I almost come from the heat and the wetness.
A few strong pulls—I’m surprised, a guy his age with suction like that, damn—and he lets me slip free. Standing again, his hands on my lower back, he licks the crack of my ass, his tongue finding its way over my skin to the tight hole I know he wants to fill. “Fuck me,” I say, just because it sounds dirty and vulgar. When I glance at him over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of the two of us in the window behind his desk. We’re a dozen stories in the air, no fear of discovery, but the tempered glass shows us as dark afterimages, my butt in the air and his face buried in my ass. “Mr. Sanford,” I gasp, then, “Mike. Fuck me already, please.”
Needing no further prompting, he drops his pants—I hear the jingle of change as the slacks hit the floor. There’s a breathless moment when he’s no longer touching me that makes me look back again, but he’s just working his own hard length before he pulls on a lubricated condom. For an old man, he is built—his balls hang low and tempting, and his cock stands up from a whorl of kinked gray curls that I want to nuzzle. Later, I promise myself. Now I want him in me. “Mike—”
That’s as far as I get before he’s easing into me, his thick shaft spreading me wide as he shoves his way in. Past the first ring of muscle, deeper inside, delving into me until I feel the tip of his dick in the very center of my being. I come immediately and then settle in for the rest of the ride.
His hands hold my hips, guide me back to him, and soon we find a hot, steady rhythm that drives me into the chair, ass bumping against him as he thrusts in further, harder, faster. All that separates us from the working world is one thin door. If Mr. Sanford didn’t have such a volatile personality, his secretary could walk in at any moment, or buzz his desk. The danger of discovery excites me as much as the man behind me, making me hard again, getting me off a second time. My juices slick the leather—at least it’s not suede, it shouldn’t stain—and when he comes, he shouts my name like an angry roar. “Johnson!”
I know the whole office heard that.
My co-workers are probably placing bets on how long I’ll be given to pack up and leave after this little ‘discussion,’ but suddenly I know my position with the company has changed. I suspect there are many more of these closed-door sessions in my future here at Sanford and Associates, LLC. Maybe quite a few late nights, too. Maybe weekends. Any sacrifice for the good of the firm, isn’t that the businessman’s motto?
He slips from me and I turn around in the chair, my hip in a cooling pool of my own jism. My legs tangle over the armrest and he runs a hand up my inner thigh to touch the freckle or whatever the hell it is on the underside of my nuts. “I think we need more of these…review meetings,” he tells me. “What do you think, Johnson? Every few days work for you?”
Running a hand through my hair to push it from my face, I smell sex and aftershave and wonder what it’ll be like now I can actually look forward to coming to work. I catch his hand in mine and half-sit up, half-pull him down to claim a kiss. When his tongue parts my lips, my cock twitches with renewed interest. Against his firm mouth, I murmur, “I think I can pencil you in.”
THE END
On the Job
“Base to twenty-three.”
Judy’s voice crackles over the radio. I have it turned down low but she’s still a little too loud—I think she yells into the radio on purpose. Usually she gets pissed at a customer and takes it out on us. By the tone of her voice now, I know I’m in for a real treat.
I reach over and turn the radio up. “Go ahead.”
I’m a service tech for the cable company, which means trouble calls and cut drops and little old ladies who can’t figure out how to program their TVs, but sometimes I get a reconnect/leave tag or an emergency mark lines, depending on what needs to be done. It’s after noon already and I have only one more order left for the day, a PM job where the customer wants me after 3:30, so I know Judy has something that’s come up. I can take another few jobs until I have to head out to Walnut Street.
When she doesn’t reply right away, I repeat myself. “Twenty-three here. Go ahead, Base.”
“Charles,” she comes back, a burst of static accompanying my name, “I have a new install I need you to pick up. Can you copy?”
Damn.
I’m not an installer, and I already know I don’t have half the tools needed to complete the job. “Um, Base,” I say, frowning at the road as I drive, “I don’t have any converters on my truck. Is this a basic only install?”
“Negative. But it’s per Bob. He says you can do it. Just tell the customer to pick up a box at the office.”
Per Bob. That means the customer has been a real ass and somehow managed to talk to the supervisor, bitching about something or other, and I’m in for it when I show up at the door. There goes the rest of my afternoon.
Amid another burst of static, Judy asks, “Can you copy?”
“Stand by.” Pulling over to the side of the road, I park in front of an apartment complex and extract a blank work order from under the seat. There’s a pen rolling around on my dashboard; snatching it, I scribble on the paper until it starts to write. “Go ahead.”
“One four seven two Ridgeview Lane.”
I copy down the address.
“Repeating. One four seven two Ridgeview Lane. Customer is a new install, three outlets, collect $42.50. Code red.”
I groan. Code red—I was right. Something happened and the guy wasn’t hooked up when he was supposed to be, and now he’s mad. And they’re sending me into the lion’s den. Just what I need today. “Ten-four.”
“Be careful, Charles,” Judy adds. “He’s a real jerk.”
I roll my eyes as I pull back onto the street. She has to learn to watch what she says over that radio.
* * * *
I pull up in front of the house on Ridgeview and cut off my truck. The house is one of those small, modular units, and looks like all the others on the block. This is a young and upcoming section of town, close to the college, so I can already imagine the customer inside. A newly married couple, maybe, or a bunch of frat boys sharing a place, or some rich snobby kid who could afford the BMW Roadster that glistens in the driveway.
With a sigh, I gather up my clipboard with the word order on top and slam the door behind me as I climb out of the truck. Despite the car parked in the drive, the house is too quiet, and I wonder if the prick is even home.
I gotta stop that. I’m getting to be as bad as the girls at the office who deal with the phone calls every day. Out here in the field, the customer is rarely as bad as the customer service reps make him out to be.
I ring the doorbell. It echoes through the house, and I hear the yip yip yip of a tiny dog inside. I hate those toy dogs. For good measure I knock on the door, pounding it with my fist.
The door flies open and oh my God, I can’t speak. I can’t remember my name, who I work for, what I’m doing here, standing on this porch looking at this man with wavy hair the color of wet sand and glaring eyes as dark as night. He stands before
me, an Adonis dressed in nothing but a tiny towel wrapped around his waist that leaves little to the imagination. When I close my eyes I see him in front of me, naked, his body still damp from the shower I obviously interrupted…
Don’t go there, Charles.
That’s my name. It’s written on my shirt above my left breast pocket. I look down to check, and once I’m not staring at him, I can think again. My words tumble out in a rush. “I’m from the cable company? To hook up your cable, Mister…” Judy didn’t tell me his name.
“Jackson,” he says, a raw edge to his voice that makes my knees weak. He looks me over and the frown is replaced with a slow grin. “They sent you to hook up my cable? Shit.”
What’s wrong with that? I want to say, but he’s looking at me with those intense eyes like indigo ink and I can’t form the words.
He glances past me at my truck, and the grin spreads into a sunny smile. If the girls in the office had known what he looked like when they talked to him on the phone, I’m sure he would’ve gotten anything his heart desired without having to talk to a supervisor.
“Damn,” he says, and that smile makes him look so impossibly young. “I didn’t think you’d show up this quick.”
I shrug and look at the work order, trying to ignore the dusky skin of his flat stomach, the muscles in his chest, the tiny drops of water dripping from his wet hair onto his shoulders to run down the planes of his body. But when I look at the clipboard in my hands I see his legs, covered with whorls of pale hair, twisted and damp, and I wish there was some way I could untuck my shirt from my pants without seeming too obvious. I was hard just standing by him…
“Um,” I try. Words have once again escaped me. “You want maybe I should…?”
His flawless brow creases and I sigh. Fuck. Let’s start all over again. “I’m here to do the install.”
“I know.” His gaze runs down my body, as palpable as a hand smoothing down my chest, and damned if I can’t feel it linger below my belt, as if he knows my dick’s crammed into my briefs and aching for his touch. My hands are clumsy, my palms sweaty, my throat dry. After an eternity, he tells me, “Come on inside.”
To emphasize his point, he steps back and kicks a little pug dog out of my way.
I clear my throat and look at that tiny towel again. “Maybe you want to get dressed first,” I say. “I’ll hook everything up out here and ring the bell when I need to get in.”
He gives me that sunny smile of his again. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”
No, what I want is to rip that little towel away, tear off my clothes, and tackle him until we’re both naked and writhing on the ground.
Instead, I somehow manage to turn from that hot gaze and make my way back to my truck. I feel his stare on my ass as I walk away. Part of me hopes this job takes the rest of the afternoon because right now? I want to knock on the door again and gaze into sparkling eyes. I want to hear that sweet voice, and I want to see that toned body, with or without the towel. I almost hope he’s not dressed when I have to go inside.
* * * *
I get the ladder off the back of the truck and lean it against the telephone pole in front of his house. After jiggling it into a secure position, I climb up to the amplifier and change the fittings, trying not to think about Mr. Jackson inside the house, who’s probably now undressed, drying off with that thirsty towel, rubbing it roughly through that wavy hair…
Stop it.
I concentrate on unrolling the cable wrapped around my shoulder. Okay, sure, he’s a cute one. Fuck, he’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in this dead-end town. But I’m the cable man. I’m here to hook up his TV and make sure he has pictures and then if I’m lucky, he’ll have no problems and will never call the office again.
Screwing one cable fitting onto the tap, I toss the rest of the coiled black wire down to the ground. I hope I have a long enough drop. When I walked from the house to my truck, I counted my steps in an effort to take my mind off the young man inside, and for added measure I pulled out another ten feet of cable before I cut it. I don’t want it to be too short. He’ll think I’m an idiot if I have to do all this over again.
I turn to look over my shoulder, mentally measuring the distance from the pole to the side of the house, and I have a clear view into the second story window, where he’s standing in that damn towel, digging through a pile of clothes. The curtains are open and I know he knows I’m here, he has to know, but he turns his back to the window and lets the towel fall away…
Sweet Jesus.
As the towel drops to the floor, it reveals a round, chiseled ass, perfectly shaped, and I have to grab onto the telephone pole because I’m going to fall. I think I’ve already fallen, and I can’t look away from the window as he tugs on a pair of white boxers followed by jeans, wiggling his hips to settle everything into place before he zips up. My mouth has to be open. My eyes must be bugging and staring and wide. Suddenly my pants are way too tight and every move I make chafes my cock, sending sweet splinters of pleasure through me. What did I turn around for again? What the hell am I doing up here?
The drop.
I look at the side of the house, and think that there’s plenty of cable to run over there. If not, I’ll climb up here again. Hell, at the moment? I can’t even remember how to get down.
Inside the bedroom, he turns and sees me. I clear my throat and he gives me a sweet smile as he pulls a T-shirt on over his head. Somehow I turn away, and manage to shimmy down the ladder without killing myself. I don’t think of anything as I gather up the coiled cable and drag the ladder over to the side of the house. I don’t think about that trim ass or those dark eyes or that seductive grin. Propping the ladder up against the house, my legs shake as I climb it to tack the cable to the awning of the roof. I can’t help but look in the bedroom again, but he’s gone. Thank the Lord.
* * * *
A crackle of static bursts from the truck—my radio. How is it that Dispatch always manages to call me when I’m up the ladder? It’s an uncanny ability, I swear, that Judy has down to a science. Ignoring the call, I descend the ladder and pull the cable taut against the siding. I’m fumbling through my pockets looking for a ground block when the door opens and Mr. Jackson steps out on the porch. “You know a girl named Garlette?”
Garlette. Who the hell… “Dispatch?”
That’s the only thing I can think of right now, and I’m proud I managed that. He’s looking at me again and my mind refuses to work beneath that steady gaze.
He glances at my hand in my pocket and I pull it out quickly, dumping a handful of change and paper clips and fittings onto his driveway because I don’t want him to think I’m standing there feeling myself up. Shit, I’m so hard right now there’s no way to hide it, and he looks even better with his jeans hanging low over his hips, his tight T-shirt tucked against that muscled chest. Jerking a thumb back at the house, he says, “You have a call. It’s from the office. Garlette.”
As I step up onto the porch, he’s staring at my crotch and I want to die. It looks like I’ve got something more than my hand or fittings in my pocket. “She asked if her installer was here. Are you her installer?”
“I’m a service tech.” I want to add I got handed this job because he was an ass on the phone, but I don’t. I can imagine him being the pissy type but I think he’d look even cuter with an angry pout on his angelic face. I pick up my clipboard from the steps and follow him into the house. He points at the phone, the receiver lying on a small table in the hall, and I pick it up. “Charles here.”
“Hey.” Garlette works with Judy in Dispatch. “You know that cable out you had on Atlantic this morning?”
“Yeah.”
I look around the house to avoid Mr. Jackson’s intense gaze. This place is a bachelor’s pad, and I see two little pugs sitting on the sofa in the living room, giving me baleful stares. One of them stands up and turns around, but when Mr. Jackson glares at it and says no in a stern voice, the dog sits
down again, whimpering.
Garlette sighs. “Well, she’s home now, and she still has no pictures. When you’re done there can you go back? Before Walnut?”
I roll my eyes. “I got good signal from the tap there. It’s an inside problem. Customer equipment, or customer ed. This install will take a little longer—”
“If you get the chance,” she says. “I can send Joe over there to help with the install, if you want. He’s back from lunch.”
I don’t want Joe to come here. I don’t want anyone else to be here but me and this boyish man who can’t keep his eyes off me, and did he just lick his lips? I’m pretty sure I saw it from the corner of my eye, that pink tongue flitting out from between those full lips…
“I’m fine,” I stammer, flipping through the papers on my clipboard for the work order from this morning. “It’s a pre-wire. I just ran the drop and now have to hook up the TVs. I’ll head back to Atlantic. Tell her to stay there the rest of the afternoon, cause I ain’t going back a third time.”
“Okay,” Garlette says, relieved. “Thanks.”
As I hang up the phone, he looks over my shoulder at my clipboard. His closeness is like a shotgun behind me, that loaded, that deadly. I almost imagine his hands hovering at my waist, his chest just inches from my back, his chin barely touching my shoulder. One hand comes up beside me and he points at the work order I scribbled his address onto earlier. “My name’s Billy,” he says. All I have written is Jackson. “Billy Jackson.”
I get the idea he’s waiting for me to write it down. I shift the clipboard onto my arm and my elbow brushes his stomach. “Sorry,” I mutter.
