I was a fry cook. He was a dishwasher. Never was there a better match made.
Outside, together we hauled the barrel of used fryer oil to the receptacle. Muscles strained beneath tight, dirty, white t-shirts. Clogged feet shuffled across the broken pavement of the back parking. Streetlamps shone overheard, casting creepy shadows around the parked cars and adjacent alleyways. The dishwasher was a handsome guy. In that heroine chiseled, been around the block kind of way.
I noticed him noticing me noticing him. He smiled. I grinned. We reached the receptacle. With a mighty heave, combining the best of each of our efforts, we dumped the bucket’s contents into the large metal bin. Brows sweating, hearts apace, lungs heaving, we shot each other an accomplished smile. His dimples were adorable. So were mine. We saw what each of us wanted in the reflection of the other’s eyes.
His lips tasted salty, but moist and firm. I imagine he felt the same of mine. His body was lean, firm. He smelled of detergents and lime. I reeked of fried fish and French fries. Our scents intertwined. It was not as unpleasant as one might imagine.
His bony hips grinded into my own. My cock was hardening. So was his. My hands were on his face, his neck, his chest, his stomach, down his pants, around his cock, stroking him, squeezing him, tugging him. His hands did the same.
Soon, dirty aprons were aflutter, and soiled jeans were around our ankles. Huddled behind the dirty old metal receptacle, we explored each other’s bodies. His ass was surprisingly plump given his lean build. I dug my fingers into its meat as I pulled him closer. He tasted raw, unpolished. I wanted more.
He was on his knees, my cock between his lips. He sucked me like infant seeking milk – tenderly, affectionately, and needingly. I sighed and moaned. He slurped and gurgled. I don’t think he had ever done this before. I know I hadn’t.
I had him on his feet, turned up against the receptacle. I spit on my fingers, and then brought them to his hole. Gently, but deliberately, I massaged him open. Pumping his ass, first one knuckle, then two, then three, then I was in up to my palm. And then another finger, and finally a third. He screamed as my hand worked open his tight, plump ass. We both froze at the shock of the sound.
Soon, his ass was full and my cock was encased. Him, panting. Me, moaning. I rode him like a jockey in the last leg of the race. We hadn’t much time, not much time at all. Any minute a bust boy could walk out with the trash or a waitress could head out to her car. I wanted to come before that happened. I wanted him to come too.
I stroked him while I fucked him. He was crazy with the pleasure of it. He came, firing streams against the outside of the dirty receptacle. This made me come too. I pulled out, just in time to glaze his ass with my seed.
Catching our breaths, I wiped his bare, creamy back clean with the front of my apron. We pulled up our pants. I grabbed the empty oil bucket, he slammed shut the lid of the receptacle. We shot each other one last quick smile, and then headed back to work.
