This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.
PIZZA BOY DELIVERS
Friday is my Hell Day. I do three days’ worth of work on Friday so I can enjoy my weekend unhindered by office obligations. That might seem counterintuitive to the modern work ethic, but screw it. As Jack Torrance in “The Shining” typed over and over, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
And I am not a dull boy.
The Friday marathon usually keeps me at the office into the evening, sometimes as late as 8 o’clock. By that time I’m ready to go home, crash on the couch, call up Netflix and stuff my face with empty carbs. Sleep soon follows. Oh, for the days when Friday nights meant hanging out in clubs with friends and partying until the wee hours. Now that I’m 39 that mattress starts looking better and better around 10 o’clock.
I’m a passable cook but after a 12-hour workday I don’t want to spend another hour in the kitchen. Sometimes I’ve got something in the freezer that looks good, but often I’ll treat myself by picking up on the way home. I try not to do that too often. At my age the weight piles on faster than it goes away, and restaurant food tends to be full of salt and fattening.
But this Friday night I was too tired to do even that. Work had been a bitch – malfunctioning computer systems, people not doing what they were hired to do, that sort of thing – and my brain had turned into a block of ice. All I wanted was to eat and fall asleep. Tomorrow I’d be off. I had all day to let my brain thaw.
So when I walked through my front door I tossed my keys and wallet onto the cabinet, took out my phone and called the number of the pizza place that was on a business card-sized magnetized sticker attached to the front of the refrigerator. I ended up ordering a large with jalapenos and black olives – I know, weird. Most people want pepperoni or sausage on their pizzas, or some kind of “protein” as they say on The Food Network. I’m by no means a vegan but at least I can pretend that my pizzas aren’t as lethal in terms of cholesterol.
I got out of my work clothes and was putting on a pair of cargos when the doorbell rang. “Shit,” I muttered. “Who the hell is delivering my pizza? The Flash?” I hadn’t even gotten my shirt or track shoes on. But an anticipatory stomach growl sent me toward the front door, wallet in hand.
I opened it to find a young guy standing there holding a thermal bag. He didn’t look a day over 16 and I was surprised a pizza place would employ a driver so young, or that a kid that age would take on a pizza-delivering job. He was about 5-foot 9, maybe 135 pounds, with coarse blond hair that hung toward his eyebrows and covered the tops of his ears. He wasn’t skinny but lean, his torso narrowing at the waist and widening to accompany his hips. I checked out his basket and saw a hint of something there – nothing huge or outlandish, but definitely something I wouldn’t mind seeing in the flesh. He was wearing a company polo, tan cargos and tennis shoes. I noticed his legs were hairy – I like that in a guy. Fuck all those pussies who shave their crotches and legs. I want some hair where there’s supposed to be goddamned hair. I don’t want to feel like I’m fucking a 12-year-old.
“Sir?” I heard, and realized I’d been staring, and he’d been speaking, and I hadn’t noticed it at all. “You ordered a large with black olives and jalapenos?”
His voice had that just-broken rasp to it. The kid was definitely no older than 16.
“No,” I joked. “I ordered jalapenos and black olives.”
He frowned and looked at the receipt taped to the box. Then, his face lit up as he finally realized I was pulling his leg. “Oh, gotcha. I’m kinda slow at the end of my shift.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” I said. “Come on in while I get you some money.”
He stepped inside the door and followed me to the kitchen. I started looking for my wallet and couldn’t find it, until I realized I was holding it in my damn hand. “Talk about slow,” I laughed.
But it wasn’t “slow” that had caused me to forget, but “hard,” as in the cock now lengthening and stiffening in my shorts. Because sometime over the past 30 seconds I had decided this kid was eminently fuckable and that if I failed to get into his pants my life would be sadly diminished.
Jesus, what was I thinking? I could never do that to a 16-year-old. I shook my head, disappointed in myself and at the same time disgusted with my sense of propriety. Sometimes I could be my own worst enemy.
He smiled and put the bag down on the cabinet, unzipping it and removing the cardboard box containing my pizza. “I do that sometimes with my sunglasses,” he said. “I’ll be looking all over the place for them and they’re on my head.”
I bet he looked incredibly sexy, sunglasses sitting atop that blond mop, the arms tucked behind his ears. A part of my brain devoted itself to composing a mental image of him behind the wheel of a convertible, sunglasses sparkling in the light, hair flying, shirtless, driving down a beach road, passersby staring in envy at a gorgeous young man who held the world in the palm of his hand with his good looks.
My loins quietly ached.
I grabbed a 20 from my wallet. The pizza cost $12.95. I told him to keep the change – he was that beautiful. It was going to be hard, eating a pizza when what I really wanted to eat was walking out the door.
He thanked me and turned to leave. Almost in a panic I spoke up, “Before you go, can I ask you a question?”
He turned and said, “Sure. What?”
“How old are you?”
He smiled knowingly. “I get that a lot. I’m 18, but everybody thinks I’m 15. Apparently I have a baby face.”
My heart skipped a beat, in a good way. Eighteen years old. One major obstacle down. Only one more to go.
“Yeah, well, hang on to that because it will serve you well through life,” I said. “They shouldn’t, but people really do judge you by your looks. And you look terrific.” And as he stood there blushing, I decided to go for broke. “So terrific that I wouldn’t mind having a little sausage with my pizza – YOURS, for instance.”
You never know how a guy is going to react when you broach the subject of sex with him. Some are offended. Some even threaten to beat you up or call the cops. Others politely decline.
And then, thank God, there are a few who actually take you up on your offer.
I wasn’t sure which way pizza boy would go. The expression on his face seemed to dim, his smile gradually fading, his gaze falling away from me to land somewhere on the floor. But he wasn’t frowning. And his muscles weren’t tensing for a fight.
I started to say something, maybe offer him a graceful way out, when he said in a quiet and suddenly sly voice, “It’s the end of my shift so I guess it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t mind getting my dick sucked.”
Jackpot! Oh, thank you God. I had lucked out again.
I simply dropped to my knees, right there on the kitchen tile, and motioned for him to come over. He approached me and his fingers were pulling at the snap on his shorts, but I brushed them aside and got it undone myself. I pulled the zipper down and then grabbed his shorts at the hips and pulled them down. A wave of heat and teen musk rolled out as his underwear came into view – not boxers like a lot of guys wear today but boxer briefs, the front of which was bulging noticeably as pizza boy firmed up for some Friday night fellatio.
I pulled down the briefs and his odor saturated the air, giving it an almost palpable stink of musk and sex. I could feel the heat radiating from his crotch. As his dick sprang into view I was delighted to see it was perfect in almost every way – neither thick nor thin, a fine pink helmet capping off a shaft adorned with a tracery of blood vessels, and a hefty pair of balls that hung in a hairy scrotal sack. He had not shaved his crotch, thank God, and his thick mass of pubic hair was darker than that blonde mop atop his head.
I buried my face in his crotch, sucking in lungfulls of that superheated, musky aroma as I pressed my lips against his shaft. It continued to harden and now jutted across my cheek as I tasted his pubic hair. I took his cock in my hand and used it to rub against my forehead, my nose, down around my chin, my throat, and then back up to my nose, even poking the head against my nostrils. He had begun to leak prostate fluid and I dabbed my tongue at the piss hole, collecting a taste, as if I were butterfly sampling his nectar.
His hands found the back of my head as I descended on his cock.
I swallowed him all the way down, until I could feel his balls on my chin. I had sucked bigger cocks before – I guesstimate his was about 6 inches – but so much of what I get out of sucking a cock depends on who’s attached to it. This boy was smoking hot, almost pretty I would say, and the knowledge that it was my throat his pretty little cock was buried in gave this suck job so much more meaning.
My hands found his ass cheeks as he began fucking my face. Between the two of us – his hands wrapped around my head and my hands wrapped around his butt – we became a kind of single entity. He jammed his cock down my throat and I sucked for all I was worth, pausing to swallow spit and take a deep breath before plunging in again.
His fucking motion became more urgent. He opened his legs a little and simultaneously my finger began working its way into his ass crack. The flesh was sticky in there, and a thin layer of sweat had formed. I would love to have interrupted my sucking to spin him around and bury my face in his ass, but he was having none of that. He began pounding at me, thrusting not just his cock but his entire crotch into my face, grunting boyishly as he did so. I wet my finger with saliva and returned it to his pulsing pucker, sliding it in as his hole opened slightly.
That, as it turned out, was the magic button. I doubt he (or anyone) had ever played with his ass because the minute my finger went in he moaned loudly and thrust the hardest he had thrust, his balls drew up and a massive load of cum was injected directly into my throat as he cried out ecstatically. I could feel his cock pulsing as more sperm shot out, and I pulled back a little because I wanted some of it my mouth so I could taste it. I ran my tongue along the underside of his shaft as more spasms of spew coated my mouth with creamy white load.
He was panting and making little puppy dog yips as I slowly eased my finger from his hole, then rubbed the exterior of his rosebud, all the while licking and sucking and tasting every little bit of spooge that twitched from his cockhead. His cum was neither sweet nor bitter – it tasted almost like almonds.
It was over before it started. I’ll bet he didn’t last 5 minutes.
He sighed contentedly and stepped away, his cock falling out of my mouth as it began to soften and return to its normal color. He pulled up his boxer briefs and shorts. That’s the saddest sound in the world – the sound of a zipper being zipped after a hot session of sucking.
“That was awesome,” he said, shaking his head, as if he’d just completed some death-defying act.
“There’s more where that came from,” I told him, getting up off the floor. “You know where I live. You know my phone number. Don’t be a stranger. I’ve got a million ways I can make you feel good. That was just one of them.”
He nodded and said, “I will do that.” Together, we walked to the front door, where he embarrassedly thanked me and scooted out the door, as if he were afraid I would give him a goodnight kiss.
He wasn’t driving a convertible. It was a Prius. Maybe Mom and Dad’s car?
No matter. I went back inside. I stood in front of the kitchen sink and jerked my cock until I spewed a load all over the stainless steel of the sink tub. I could still taste him in my mouth.
I had a feeling I’d be eating a lot more pizza.
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