Sucking Dick At My First Job 05: Pepperoni and Sausage (Patreon)

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Chapter 5: Pepperoni and Sausage

Dom was three steps past the register when my head came up over the counter, and he stopped talking halfway through the laugh.

"Well," he said. "I didn't expect that."

He didn't move. His keys were still in his hand with his hoodie over his forearm, and his eyes moved from my wet chin to the soaked line down the front of my shirt to Tyler's buckle and back to my face, and they narrowed while he looked.

"Hey, Dom," Tyler said brightly. "You forget something?"

I would have given anything to have Tyler's brain for ten seconds. He had no shame or worry about anything. And he had zero instinct for covering things up, because as far as he could tell nothing had occurred that needed explaining. He was already reaching for the olives again with his typical half smile.

I could feel my pulse in my jaw. My knees hurt from the mat. My dick was still hard in my jeans from ten minutes of having a mouthful of oversized boy cock, and Dom was standing four feet away looking right at me while it throbbed against my zipper.

"My phone," Dom said, looking at me.

He put his keys in his hoodie pocket without taking his eyes off me.

His phone was on the shelf over the makeline, next to the timer, where he always left it. He crossed the kitchen and picked it up and pocketed it, and then he looked at me again, and the narrow look had left his eyes.

"Was it good?" he said.

"Yeah," I said.

He tipped his head back and laughed at the ceiling, one short loud one, and then he pushed the front door open with his back for the second time that night and walked out to his car.

Tyler clicked a lid onto the olives. "What a chill guy," he said.

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The next shift, Dom had gotten his hair cut, with the top still pushed over, and I spent the first hour of that shift getting used to how much of his neck I could see. I was still a perv after all.

We had Tyler doing dishes all night in the back, while Dom and I did the dinner rush with a strong, ergonomic efficiency that had developed over the summer, and when last table cleared out Dom hauled himself up onto the prep table with his back against the wall and his legs hanging off, the exact spot he'd been sitting the night he told me he wasn't gay and then put my hand on his dick.

"So... why'd you suck the new kid's dick," he said.

I looked up from the array of shakers I was organizing. "Well, you weren't here."

"Wow," he said, "I've created a monster."

"He's huge by the way." 

"No way, really?" 

I put the shaker down. I held my hands up in front of me, apart, like I was showing him how big a fish was that I caught. He laid his own palm flat along his forearm, wrist at the elbow, and checked it against the distance.

"Bullshit," he said, glancing through the little window at Tyler still happily doing dishes in the kitchen.

"No, really," I said, and chopped my hand at two spots on my own arm.

"Soft?"

"Soft it hangs down like a subway footlong, dude, and hard, it's like a fucking sledgehammer. I don't even know."

I made an incomplete circle with my thumb and fingers. 

"And the girth of that hog." 

"I wanna see it," Dom said. 

"Ask him. He's not shy."

We chuckled together for a moment.

"Was it his first blowjob?" he asked.

"First successful one."

"And he told you that?"

"He talks the entire time," I said, and we started laughing.

He stole a pepperoni off the makeline and pushed it into his mouth, heels knocking the table leg like a little boy, same as always.

"Did you get him off?"

"Yeah."

"A lot?"

"Dude. I couldn't keep up with it."

"And you seriously couldn't fit it."

"A third of it, maybe. My throat failed it."

He nodded slowly, and I saw him getting hard through his pants. He was looking at the oven instead of me, and I stood there refilling shakers and understood what was happening. 

I had spent the whole summer being the one who watched him. I knew his shifts, his hands, the line of his abs from the side, the exact sound of his car in the back lot. Now he was the one leaning forward off the wall asking questions about a dick that wasn't his, and I kept waiting for the sour twist I got whenever the blonde girl leaned over the counter at him. It didn't come. He was asking me the questions this time.

"You do anything to his ass?" he said.

"I licked his balls and put a finger on his hole."

"Did he like it?"

"He loved it. He almost fell over."

He laughed at that, and then his heels stopped knocking the table leg.

"You ever do stuff to your own ass?"

"Yeah," I said. "Fingers. At home. In the shower where it's clean." My ears were hot, but I said the rest anyway. "Thinking about you, usually."

He looked at me for a second.

"Do you wanna fuck me?" I said.

He got the look on his face that I recognized by now, the one he got when he was balls deep in my throat. He glanced at the back hallway first.

"I mean," he said, quietly. He cleared his throat. "If you're offering..."

I just smiled.

Dom pushed the swinging door open that led to the kitchen. 

"Yo," he said to Tyler. "Wipe down the windows for me?" 

Tyler was out front with a rag and the spray bottle in seconds, and I heard him start talking to the glass while he wiped it down. Dom looked at me and tilted his head at the back hallway, and I dropped my rag on the prep table.

····[]····

I got in first and he came in behind me and pushed on the door, and it sat in the frame the same as always, not fully latched, with a gap you could see the hallway light in.

He pulled down a jar of olive oil from a high shelf, and set it on the dough shelf at eye level. 

"Lube?" I said.

He just smiled at me.

He turned me by the shoulder so I was facing the dough shelves. I got my own jeans open before his hands arrived, and he shoved them down to my knees for me, underwear with them, and the cold grabbed my bare ass and the backs of my thighs all at once. My apron stayed tied. It hung down in front of my dick, and my dick was already hard against it. Behind me I heard his belt come open and his pants shove down, and then he pressed up against me and he was hard too, hot against my ass cheek, the only warm skin in that whole room.

I put my forearms up on the lip of a dough tray and leaned my chest into the rack.

His fingers were cold and wet with our makeshift lube when the first one touched me, and I jumped. His other hand came down flat on my lower back and held me still. One finger, slowly. My own fingers at home had not prepared me for how different somebody else's felt, thicker, moving at an angle I couldn't predict, and my breathing got loud against the trays. When he worked the second one in beside it I pressed my forehead against the shelf edge and moaned, and he pumped them a while, opening me up, taking his time, even if we didn't exactly have time to spare.

Then his fingers were gone, and the head of him pressed against me, hotter than the fingers and blunter, and he pushed in slowly with both hands on my hips. It burned. My heels came up off the tile and he stopped right there, halfway in, and held still.

"Breathe," he said.

My heels came back down. The burn faded out, and what was left was fullness, and my dick throbbed against the apron.

"There you go," he said, the same way he had the first time I ever touched him.

He started moving. Long slow pulls at first, and the rack ticked against the wall with each one, and then less slow. His hands slid off my hips and pushed up under my shirt, his palms hot against my ribs while the fabric bunched up around his wrists, and then they ran back down and clamped onto my hips, fingers digging into the bone. His hips started slapping against my ass in a rhythm, skin on skin, and every stroke swung his balls forward into mine, a heavy little tap that made my dick jump against the apron. The olive oil had everything soaked back there, and each slap came with its own wet squelch, loud off all that metal, filling the whole walk-in. Under the noise I could hear him breathing, steady, heavier each time his thighs smacked into the backs of mine and left heat behind on my cold skin. Anybody in that hallway would have known exactly what that sound was, and I loved every wet clap of it. I heard myself moaning into the dough trays, low and constant. I had cold air on my thighs and his heat driving into me and I was leaking a wet spot into the front of my apron, folded over a dough shelf in a fridge with my jeans at my knees, and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.

I reached a hand down and pressed it over myself through the apron. Everything happening in my body was strange and new, pleasure showing up from places that had never made any before, and I needed something familiar in the mix. Touching my dick just felt right. The fabric was soft and silky against my shaft while Dom rocked my whole body from the inside, and I rubbed myself in the rhythm he was setting.

It took almost nothing. I squirted hard into the apron, flooding it, and the heat of my own load soaked the fabric and leaked back against my skin while my hole clenched up around him again and again, his cock holding me open so every squeeze had something thick to grip on. I moaned into the dough trays and did not care how it sounded. It was the best version of an orgasm my body had ever given me.

His breathing got heavy over my back, ragged bursts of it hot on my neck while the rest of me stayed cold, and I could feel his chest brushing my spine every time he leaned into a stroke. My hole was still fluttering around him from my own orgasm, and every clench pulled a low grunt out of him. He swore once, quietly, almost to himself, the word squeezed out between two thrusts. His fingers flexed on my hips, gripping, letting up, gripping again, and he kept that same steady pace, deep and wet and unhurried, like he could do it all night. 

Then the door moved.

It swung in about the width of a cheese case, and then wider, and Tyler stood in the opening with the spray bottle still in one hand.

"Yo, are we out of..." he started, and then he saw us.

Dom kept his rhythm. He didn't stop, and he didn't speed up, and his fingers stayed right where they were on my hips. I looked sideways at Tyler from where I was folded over the shelf, my face hot, my mouth open.

"Whoa," Tyler said.

He watched us for a second with his head tipping over to the side, the confused-puppy tilt, except he didn't look confused.

"Hey, after you're uh... done," he said, "could I fuck him too?"