Sucking Dick At My First Job (Patreon)

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Chapter 1: Pizza Time

The summer I got my first job, I discovered I was definitely gay. It was at a pizza place in a strip mall between a nail salon and a vape shop. The wages were abysmal, and the cash tips were hit or miss. The owner was only there for a bit mid-day, so on my shifts, usually from four to close, it was me, whoever was on the register, and Dominic.

Dominic was in charge when the boss wasn't around, and I was smitten from day one. I recognized him from school, but had never said a word to him. The first day working there, I saw him up close, and literally lost my breath for a minute. He had high cheekbones, and messy black hair that got kind of long before he would finally go and get it cut, pushed off to one side. His body was tall and pale,  with moderate beef in his pecs and arms, I think from just being active. At some shifts he'd be wearing one of the tighter uniform shirts, and I could see his thin waist under it. 

He'd worked there a couple years already, so he was a "shift leader", even though there were only two or three guys working there at any time. And he knew how everything worked. He knew the oven's hot spots, and he could be counted on to know exactly where to place a thing in what part of the oven to cook it "perfect".

And when the owner left on the first day, I got to see a glimpse of Dominic's fun side. He had made up a bunch of new recipes using the limited ingredients we had. It became a little secret between us. He basically reinvented the "calzone", even though we didn't sell those. On slow nights we would go nuts and make the most interesting, meaty, cheesy concoctions on dough, and eat them standing up at the prep table, throwing the evidence out before we closed.

I started counting shifts. Not on purpose at first. A schedule went up on the office door every Sunday and I'd look for my name and then I'd look for his, and I'd do a small amount of math about it, and if we were on together three days that week my chest sat different for the rest of the day. I never wrote any of it down. I just knew it.

I started storing images of him in my head on every shift together, and I tried to deny that I was using it for wank material, but it became undeniable the first time his girlfriend came in. The pangs of jealousy were sharp, and deep as I watched a pretty blonde girl smile big at him across the counter. They talked for a minute, she did a few flirty things with her body stance, and he gave her some money before she left. I felt like I was going to throw up, watching through my periphery as I wiped the counters on the other side of the lobby. 

She came in a couple times a week during his shifts, and every time she did, he'd meet her at the counter. They'd keep their faces close and flirt, and even a brief kiss sometimes. It filled me with a rage I hadn't known before, a strange soreness that felt almost good in a weird way. I liked having someone in my brain that I could obsess over. It was all too complex to understand, but it was real, and it was intense.

And I carried on carefully avoiding being obvious as I looked at him every chance I got. I even watched his hands when he was stretching dough. 

And from the side, when his arm was up and the shirt came with it, I could see the whole line of his abs, and that side view got me through most of that summer alone in my room at night. That and his bulge. Depending on which pants he had on I saw a lot, and I looked whenever his back was to me or his head was in the oven, and I built the rest from my imagination, mixed with the naked dudes I would see online. I had a version of his dick and his balls in my head that I updated basically daily. I wondered if he was huge, or small, or average. I wondered how much hair was on his balls, and above his dick, and on his taint.

When he reached up for the pans on the top rack and his shirt came up and showed the dark hair running down from his navel into his waistband, I would turn around and got something out of the low fridge. I was extremely good at getting things out of the low fridge, which only made sense because of our height difference. And I only thought about what I needed from the low fridge when seeing him get something from up top reminded me, so it made sense that we would be grabbing things at the same time sometimes. That made sense to me, so it should make sense to everyone else. I knew I was being a pervert, but no one else would know.

The bathroom at that place was single occupancy, off the back hallway between the walk-in and the mop sink, and the lock was a hook-and-eye that somebody had installed crooked so it only caught if you lifted the door. I found that out in July. It was a slow day, and I had built up enough tension in myself that I was going to go insane if I didn't have a wank. I'd been in there a while, going for a second round on my dick, and I was leaning on the sink with my pants around my thighs when the hook slipped.

Dominic opened the door about eight inches, saw me, and closed it.

He had seen my full dick out in my hands as I was relieving an urgent need, and he didn't say anything about it that night, or the next shift, or the one after. 

····[]····

There was a slow night with the front door still unlocked and nobody in the lobby, and he hauled his butt up to sit on the prep table with his back against the wall and his legs hanging off, and he looked over at me where I was refilling the parm shakers.

"Hey," he said.

He was up on the table, so he was looking down at me.

"I'm sorry about the other day," I blurted out, not even realizing I was going to say it before I did.

"For what."

"For the... the bathroom."

"Bro," he said, laughing, "I've jacked off in that bathroom probably a hundred times. Literally that's what it's for."

I laughed. It came out boyish, and I actually made my voice deeper on purpose to try and make up for it, trying to seem nonchalant about it.

He stole a pepperoni off the makeline and folded it into his mouth, heels knocking against the table leg. "I bet you're a chronic gooner."

I smiled, even if I was a bit nervous. "Honestly, basically true."

"I remember those days. I had a whole system. One in the shower in the morning, one after school, one at night, sometimes two."

"Damn, three or four every day?"

"Minimum. Over a boring summer, bro, I lost count." 

I quit strangling the parm shaker and leaned my hip against the counter, just looking at him. 

"You get horny at work?" he asked, swinging his legs like he was interested in the way the conversation was going. "I do, constantly. It's the boredom. Half the reason that bathroom exists. What's your number, honest answer."

"Two, I guess. Three on a bad day."

"More like a good day. Respect." He nodded at me and I stood up a little straighter, like my wank count was a good thing, for some reason.

"So you got a girlfriend?" he said.

"No."

"Talking to anybody?"

"Not really."

"Any girl at school you'd wanna get with?"

I opened my mouth to give the answer I kept loaded for questions like that, some name I could throw out, and it wasn't there. He watched me stand in front of him with my mouth open and nothing coming out.

"You're into guys only then?" he said.

I felt my stomach fall out of my ass. 

"What?" I said, my voice breaking.

He looked at me with his head a little tipped, like he was deciding whether to make me say it.

"I mean, you've been perving on me since your first day," he said. "Since like your first hour. You do the fridge thing."

I swallowed through a dry throat. "What fridge thing."

"Every time I go up for pans you go in the low fridge." He shrugged. "Dude, it's cool. I mean, I didn't know if you were like, fully gay or whatever."

I dropped a parm shaker and it hit the ground without breaking. The word "gay" had been used. It was like a thousand fears coming to the surface at once. I couldn't produce a single English word. My ears were hot.

A few seconds of silence as I struggled to grab onto and pick up the stupid shaker.

"I'm not gay," I said finally as I stood up.

He raised an eyebrow. "I mean..."

"I'm not, I just..." I stopped.

"My brother's gay," Dominic said. "I don't care. Nobody cares."

He knocked a heel back against the table leg, and I felt an uncontrollable pressure building in my face. My throat got tight. 

"Oh man, don't cry," he said, "Dude, it's all good."

"I'm not about to cry," I said through the most choked up voice imaginable.

"I'm not gay," I said again, quieter this time, and he laughed at that, but not meanly.

His light mood finally broke its way through to me, just a little, and I chuckled too.

"Okay," he said. "I'm not either."

"Yeah. I've seen you with your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend."

I turned my head, finally relaxed enough to lean back on the counter again.

"Why do you always give her money?"

"She needs it," he said with a chuckle. A pause. "We do fuck a lot though."

That made my stomach twist, thinking about him naked and humping away, moving his muscular butt and abdomen around, driving that dick, which could be enormous for all I knew, toward a throbbing, red, big wet orgasm, his butt tightening up and his arms flexing.

"Yeah, I might be gay," I said with a sigh.

And we both laughed, and he looked right at me. He leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs. 

"Well I'm not," he said, and he glanced around the room. There was no one there, a slow night. 

He looked back at me, a half smile forming again. "But it doesn't mean I can't help out a buddy."

I didn't understand that sentence for a second. And then I did understand it, all at once, and my whole body understood it before my mouth caught up. I felt an erection appear so fast that the tense throbbing pulled my underwear up on my balls. My eyes went wide.

"What," I said.

"You heard me," he said, glancing quickly down at his crotch and back at me. "I mean, if you want."

I was still holding a parm shaker. He looked past me again at the lobby, empty tables, nothing in the oven, a front door unlocked for nobody. He reached out and took my wrist. I watched him as he slowly brought my hand to his crotch. I squeezed instinctively, feeling a dude's meat for the first time. 

He slid off the prep table and nodded at the walk-in fridge, then turned away from me and walked into it. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

I followed him as far as the doorway. He was leaning back against the shelves, between the sauce cases and the dough trays, standing with his knees apart, hands on either side of his thighs.

He looked at me standing in the doorway with my apron still on, and he waited.

"You gonna come in here or what," he said. I came in. I pushed the door most of the way closed behind me with my heel because part of my brain was still thinking about the restaurant. Then I was standing in front of him with my hands hanging at my sides.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I said.

His work pants had a shine at the knees from three years of wear. A stripe of dried sauce ran across the hem of his shirt. He smelled like the oven and like deodorant, and underneath that like a guy. I knew the smell by now. I could identify it blindfolded, and now it was up close.

I put my hand on his thigh first. It was firm under the fabric, more solid than my own leg, and warm through the black polyester.

I slid my hand up and over and put my palm on him.

He was getting hard already. And there was plenty of mass in it, running up and to one side under the pants, and the shape of it under my hand made my jaw loosen. I squeezed once, barely, and he pushed a breath out through his nose.

"There you go," he said.

I got both hands on his waistband and my fingers didn't work right, and he tipped his hips up off the stool to help me get the pants and the boxer briefs down together to his thighs, and then it was out in the light in front of me.

It was a lot bigger than mine. The real shock was just seeing a dick in person, getting hard. It was surreal after only seeing my own before. I looked closely at every ridge. It felt like the most special moment of my life up to that point. It was thick in the middle and heavy enough that it didn't stand all the way up on its own, leaning slightly, the head shiny and already wet at the tip, the base capped with a bush of black hair that ran up his belly and spread out across his heavy balls. And the smell hit me, warm, sharp and male, eleven hours of a hot kitchen on it.

"Okay," I said, but not to him.

I put my hand around it and squeezed. I felt a throb, or a heart beat. I stroked him slowly, my dry mouth suddenly giving way to salivation. I watched the skin move with my hand. The head got wetter.

I got down on my knees on the tile without being asked.

I put my nose in the hair at the base and breathed it in like an animal, and I heard him say "Jesus" quietly above me, and I dragged my mouth up the underside of it from the base to the head, slowly, with my lips open. I stuck out my tongue, slobbering as I licked his balls. I pulled one into my mouth  with my tongue, and held it there as I stroked him against my face, gently sucking his nut. I heard him swear again, and his hand came down on the shelf beside him and gripped it. I kept doing that for a long time, tasting both nuts and licking all the skin I could, working my mouth all over him with my hands on his thighs, my knees getting cold through my jeans.

When a bead of pre-cum fell off the glistening tip of his rod, I finally  took the head into my mouth. I opened too wide, and my jaw hurt immediately. I got maybe three inches of him before my throat seized up, and I felt my face flush as I gagged. I came off and looked up at him with my mouth wet, my eyes beginning to water.

"Put your hand on my head," I said.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Just do it," I said. "I want you to push me."

His hand came down onto the back of my skull, fingers pushing into my hair, and he pushed me down onto it, and that was the end of me having any dignity in that situation, if there was any left anyway. He took my words literally, and pushed me down further than I'd gotten on my own and held me there until my eyes watered and my throat clenched around him, and when he let me up I dragged in air and spit ran down my chin onto my shirt for a second, before he pushed me right back down.

"Okay," he said quickly, muttering, almost to himself. "Yeah there's a good boy."

He got rough with it once he knew I'd take it. His hand ran the whole thing, pulling me down and holding me and letting me up just enough, and I gagged on him more than once, my whole back arching and seizing, and every time it happened his grip tightened instead of easing off. My eyes ran. My nose ran. Drool soaked the front of my shirt in a line down to my belt and I could not have cared less. My own dick was so hard in my jeans it hurt. 

It was the most sexual moment of my life and I hadn't even touched myself.

He went fast after that, standing up off the shelf to hold my head with both hands over my ears. He humped my face like I was a sex toy, ignoring every resistance my throat gave. I held his ass, pulling him in to encourage it, but I wasn't even sure how much more I could take. I was high on dick and there was nowhere else I wanted to be. 

The sound of my throat getting stuffed, the squishing of his cock as he jammed it into me repeatedly, and his urgent breaths over my head are forever burned into my brain. He was full-length ramming his dick into me as I drooled all over my shirt and his shoes and the floor of that walk-in fridge. 

Then the store phone rang.

The handset was sitting on the shelf above his head, buzzing against the metal, and he reached up with his free hand and looked at it, and answered it.

"Gino's"

I stopped. He didn't. His hand kept working the back of my head at exactly the same pace, pushing me down onto him while he said "yeah, no, we close at ten" into the phone in a voice so flat you would think he was bored, rather than close to orgasm inside a boy's throat.

"Sure, we can do that for you," he said. "Two cheese, one pepperoni. Any sides?" His hand pushed me down. I took it, groaning loudly. "No, that shouldn't be a problem. Yeah, we do half-and-halfs all the time."

I have never been that hard in my life. Kneeling on cold tile in a semi-public place with his hand on my skull, his voice above me taking a pizza order, using my mouth while he talked to a customer, and I stayed down there and took it.

"Oh, six people? You should probably order one more to be safe," he said, and then his hand tightened hard in my hair and his thighs locked up under my hands, and he said "yeah, we have vegan cheese," in the exact same flat voice while he suddenly pulsed, holding me down, pushing all the way into my throat. He pumped his seed directly into my stomach, and it felt like a lot. The only slip-up on his end was the lightest little groan between words.

It was a lot. It kept coming and I stayed on him and swallowed what I could and held the rest, and he held my head down through all of it with his hips pressed into my face, his abdomen literally squashing my nose.

"Alright. It'll be ready in about twenty minutes." He hung up and set the phone back on the shelf.

His hand opened. I came off him and sat back on my heels on the tile with my mouth full and my eyes streaming and my shirt soaked, and I looked up at him. The last squirt had landed on my tongue, and I was savoring it, holding it for myself. 

"You can spit in the mop sink," he said.

I swallowed it instead. He watched me do it and he sort of half smiled.

Then he pulled his pants back up off his thighs, and buckled his belt, like he'd just come off break.

"Wash your hands," he said. "Then prep three crusts."