by J. M. Snyder
He snags a plastic bag and extracts it from the trash. “Here we go.” Setting the bag on my abdomen, he digs inside for an unopened box of condoms and a small bottle of lubricating jelly. “I stopped by the store on my way over,” he explains, tearing into the box of condoms. “Just in case things went this far.”
“Hoping you’d get lucky?” I joke.
He laughs, the rich, sexy sound filling the car. “Damn straight.”
My dick juts up in front of him like temptation, and every move he makes rubs his own hard cock alongside mine. The next time it comes close, I open my hands and catch it between them, pressing his member to mine. We move together for a few minutes, thrusting against each other, seeking release. But Paul has other plans, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to cap off the evening inside him.
He swats at my hands, forcing me to release my own cock, so I latch onto his instead. As I knead his length, he opens a condom and rolls it onto me. At the base of my shaft, he takes a moment to toy with my balls, rolling them in his palm like a pair of lucky dice. Desire shoots through me as his fingers play across my nuts. The only noises coming from me now are low, lusty moans deep in the back of my throat, primal grunts of delight. I couldn’t form his name if I wanted to. I want him too bad.
A liberal drizzle of lube coats my cock, and I feel him rub it along the condom and down into my pubic curls. Then cool hands slip under my shirt, over my belly, up my chest to pluck the hard nubs of my nipples. I writhe under Paul as he sits up, positioning himself. He leans close over me to whisper in my ear, “Open me.”
The invitation in his voice thrills me. Releasing his dick, my hands smooth over his hips to cup his ass. I grab fistfuls of meaty flesh and knead it between my fingers like dough as I work my way in to the center of his being. One hand finds the crack between his buttocks; the other follows it down to his puckered hole. His whole body twitches when I finger his anus and he shivers in my arms, hunkering down closer to me. His mouth covers mine as I work one finger into him. When I get two in, I feel the weeping head of his dick slip up under my shirt to rub across my stomach.
Unable to contain myself much longer, I hold him open with one hand and guide my cock to his ass with the other. He rocks back onto me, grunting above me as I thrust into him. I kiss away the discomfort flickering across his face. He sits back, inch by inch, taking all of me in. The moment my cock fills him completely, he comes in a hot rush, his warm jism sticking my shirt to my skin.
“Oh, God,” he moans as he sits, hands twisting my tits as he fucks me. He doesn’t move up and down so much as in a sideways circle, grinding himself onto my cock like a corkscrew, crushing my balls beneath his ass. I hold onto his hips and throw my head back as he fucks my hard dick, the muscles in his ass pinching and squeezing my length, his movements bringing me toward release. “Oh, yes. Oh, God. Yes, yes, yes.”
Sensation floods every fiber of my being. As his ass works my cock, his fingers tweak my nips, and I lean back to stare out at what night I can see beyond the steamed window, the endless stars above. We find a fast rhythm as we move together, furious in our need, our lust. He comes a second time, jerking his seed out onto my chest, and my own orgasm bursts through me to fill him.
* * * *
For long moments, we linger in the back seat. Our body heat has warmed the car’s interior—the air is thick with the intoxicating smell of sweat and sex, and neither of us is ready to call it a night just yet. When my limp cock finally slips out of Paul’s ass, the condom stays behind, soaking the front of my jeans with my own cum.
Paul laughs until he realizes his khakis also took a hit—that oily spot on the front thigh isn’t the only stain now. Snapping his briefs into place, he kicks the khakis into a ball on the floor of the car, then crawls between the front seats to plop down behind the wheel. “I’m driving home like this,” he announces.
Alone in the back seat, I stretch out and struggle to pull up my damp jeans. My tender dick doesn’t want to retreat into my briefs just yet, but I jam it down anyway. Without Paul back here with me, I’m not likely to see any more action this evening. “What if you get stopped by a cop?”
Between the seats, I watch Paul pull open the fly of his briefs, exposing himself. “How much do you think a quick flash will get me?”
“Five to ten years in the county jail,” I joke. “And a ticket, I’m sure. Speeding and soliciting an officer.”
Paul laughs. “The worst part would be the speeding ticket—I’ll lose my job if I get another.”
“Another?” I start to tug down my shirt before I realize it, too, is sticky with seed. Peeling it off, I toss it on the floor with Paul’s pants. “How many do you have?”
“Including the one tonight?” Paul holds up one hand and counts the fingers twice. “Eight.”
Crawling into the front of the car, I pull on my jacket as I sink into the passenger seat. “You didn’t get one tonight,” I point out.
The arched look he gives me says otherwise.
Now that I’m out of the back seat, I can feel the wintry night beyond the windows. Zipping up the coat against the cold, I ask, “You got a ticket before you picked me up?”
Paul runs a hand over his forehead, knocking off his baseball cap in the process. His freed hair falls into his eyes and I can’t resist reaching out to tuck it behind his ear. It feels just as soft as I thought it would. “Technically it was after I was off the clock,” he says, his voice low between us. When I start to pull my hand back, he takes it in his own and presses it to his lips. I feel him grin against my knuckles. “What can I say? I had something hot and ready I wanted to deliver to your door.”
As cheesy as that sounds, I melt to hear it. Without even realizing it, I make up my mind. “How about this? Come back to my place and I’ll run your uniform through the wash. It’ll be nice and clean by the time you head home. Tomorrow.”
“The shirt, too?” I nod. “Undies?”
“Everything.” The word sounds like a promise to my own ears, and my body trills at the suggestion beneath it.
Catching my drift, Paul leers. “What’ll I wear while you’re doing my laundry?”
I drop my hand from his and find my way to the front of his briefs again, where another erection has started to blossom. “Who says we have to wear anything at all?”
THE END
Quintessential
Jerry Bennett didn’t know why the shipping company he worked for insisted on always having the latest and greatest electronics in the office. Last year, all the computers had been upgraded to the newest version of Windows, and for weeks afterward, nothing seemed to work right. Customer invoices weren’t sent, bills of lading disappeared, shipments hung up in loading bays waiting for authorization that never came. The moment they seemed to get all the kinks worked out of the system, the e-mail client they had switched to stopped working properly. Then their accounting program was updated and that, too, went kaplooey.
Some days he wondered if he wasn’t getting too old for this crap. He could remember when bills of lading were handwritten in triplicate. Sure, the pink copy on the bottom was sometimes too faded to read, but at least the document didn’t disappear into cyberspace. It remained in a file somewhere for all eternity.
Not any longer. All their old documents had been scanned or re-entered into the computer. He couldn’t go to the file cabinet, pull out a drawer, and root for an old invoice or waybill. They didn’t exist. Or rather, they did, but as bits of binary code on a hard drive somewhere, encrypted with a password that changed weekly, and even though he received an update via e-mail from IT each week, he never remembered the long combination of numbers and letters that would unlock their files.
Was all that really necessary? Who could possibly want to steal shipping documents that were filed away and forgotten twenty years ago?
Then last week, it was announced that all the company computers would be upgraded again. Not even Windows this time—they were going Mac. Jer
ry wasn’t even sure what that meant, really, but the quick overview they were given of the new system hurt his brain. In some ways it looked similar, true, but the guys in the IT department had pressed the need to learn keyboard shortcuts and Jerry just couldn’t get it. What was wrong with using the mouse? “Too slow,” they told him. “Next question?”
Too slow, my ass, he thought. At forty-three, he liked to think he was still in the prime of his life. He was active after work—spent his evenings at the gym, and his weekends hiking or rafting. Whenever he went out with friends, his rugged good looks still drew attention. He never sat at home Friday or Saturday night. He dressed well and enjoyed his bachelor’s life. How many times had a restaurant server written her number—or his—on the bottom of Jerry’s receipt? Jerry fooled around with men and women, and none had managed to tie him down yet. So how could he be getting too old to figure out how to do his job?
When he came into work Monday morning, a brand new MacBook Pro sat on his desk. It looked so…so small. He tossed his briefcase into his chair and stared at the thin sliver of shiny aluminum. It looked insubstantial, and when he lifted it, it felt virtually weightless. How could they replace his hulking desktop computer, which used to sit under his desk so it wouldn’t take up too much space, with this thing? There were no cords connecting it to anything, no mouse, nothing. Did it even work?
Carefully, he set the MacBook aside and opened his briefcase. Inside was the thick, Windows-based laptop he used whenever he had to take work home. He pulled out the tangled cord and crawled under his desk to plug it into the power strip, then ran the cord up behind the desk before plugging it into the laptop. There was a small mouse in the briefcase, too, which he plugged into the laptop before turning it on. The MacBook sat to one side, neglected. He’d use this old thing until they pried it from his cold, dead hands.
* * * *
Unfortunately, when Jerry turned on the laptop, he knew right away something was wrong. For starters, it took way too long to boot up. Two minutes went by, then three, and the Windows logo flickered a few times but didn’t go away. A full five minutes passed—Jerry’s gaze kept bouncing from the screen to the clock above his desk and back again—and finally the startup image went away, only to be replaced with…nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No desktop, no icons, no toolbar along the bottom, nothing. “Shit,” he muttered, hitting the spacebar, then the Enter key. Still nada. He tried the three-finger salute, ALT+CTRL+DEL. No dice. Under his breath, he cursed, “Fucking piece of shit.”
Another minute or two went by before he conceded defeat. Picking up the telephone beside him, he dialed the four digit extension to the IT department. A woman answered. “IT. Help you?”
“My computer won’t start,” he said.
“Won’t turn on?” she asked.
Jerry felt his ire rise. “No, it turns on, but after the Windows logo goes away, nothing happens.”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then, speaking slowly as if she were talking to a child, she explained, “We’re using Macs now.”
“I have a laptop,” he told her. “It won’t start. Can you—”
“We don’t service personal computers, sir.”
Jerry grit his teeth and counted backwards from five before he dared to say anything else. “This is a company computer. I had it with me over the weekend and now it won’t start.”
“So you’re saying it won’t turn on?” she asked again.
“Did I stutter?” Jerry asked, angry now. “It’s on, but there’s nothing on the screen.”
The woman sounded bored. “Did you try turning on the monitor?”
“It’s a goddamn laptop,” Jerry barked. Before she could answer, he asked, “Just send someone down here already, okay? I don’t have all day to go around in circles with you. Jesus.” Then he slammed down the phone and glared at the MacBook beside his laptop, as if this were all its fault.
He waited. Ten minutes passed, then another five. He picked up the phone to call back—this time he’d insist on talking to a real technician, or a supervisor, at least—when he heard a quick rap on his open office door. He turned and stared at the man standing in his doorway.
Man? Boy, more like it. The kid didn’t look old enough to shave, and he was dressed in hipster clothes—skinny jeans, an oversized turtleneck under a tan denim jacket, some sort of scarf thing around his neck, and a large messenger bag slung across his chest. He wore square glasses with dark frames and thick lenses…at least, Jerry thought they had to be thick, because the guy’s eyes looked huge, as if magnified. He had a long, narrow face and a body so thin, he was probably underweight.
Then there was the hair. A mop of disheveled, careless dark hair swirled above his brow, strands blown every which way for a bed-head, windswept look that probably took an hour in front of the mirror with a blow-dryer and a bottle of hairspray to achieve. He looked gawkish and nerdy, and if Jerry were being honest, more than a little cute.
Still, he wasn’t in the mood for cute today. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“IT,” the kid explained, tugging off his scarf. “You’re having laptop problems? Why aren’t you using the Mac?”
“Are you old enough to work here?” Jerry asked, skeptical.
The kid’s mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “Shouldn’t you be retired by now?”
Suddenly, Jerry laughed. He liked this kid’s spunk. “Hey, man, I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re just…damn, you’re young.”
The scarf and messenger bag were tossed on a chair in front of Jerry’s desk, and the denim coat soon followed. “If I said damn, you’re old, would you be offended?” the kid asked. “I don’t have to prove myself to you.”
Jerry held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I’m just…God, this whole thing’s so frustrating, you know? This piece of crap worked fine yesterday and now…”
He pushed his chair back from his desk as the kid came around to look at his laptop. Behind his glasses, his eyes lit up, and a real grin appeared on his thin lips. “Looks like you’re infected.”
“Now that’s offensive,” Jerry joked. “All my tests came back negative.”
The kid gave him a wry look. “I mean your laptop has a virus. Another reason you should use the Mac.”
“What?” Jerry shook his head. “I have Norton installed. I can’t get a virus.”
The kid jerked his thumb. “Up. Let me take a look.”
Jerry stood and let the kid take his seat. As he got situated in front of the laptop, Jerry leaned on the back of his chair. After a quiet moment, filled only with the sound of the kid’s fingers flitting on the laptop’s keyboard, Jerry said, “Where are my manners? I’m Jerry, Jerry Bennett. You are…?”
“Quin,” came the terse reply. “Let me work.”
Jerry nodded. “Quin. That’s odd. Is that your first name? Last name? What—”
Quin groaned. “Hello? I’m a little busy here.” He pushed back against the chair, trying to dislodge Jerry. “Can you give me some space?”
Without another word, Jerry backed away. All right, fine. Be that way. He strolled to the other side of his desk and began straightening things—his calendar, his pen holder, his business card tray. The kid’s cute factor was slipping fast. Then, unable to stop himself, he asked, “How long is this going to take?”
Quin made a few final taps on the keyboard, then sat back as the laptop emitted the familiar Windows shutdown chime. The monitor flicked off—Jerry saw the reflection in Quin’s glasses—then the laptop began to reboot. Finally Quin told him, “A particularly nasty virus has locked up the BIOS system. The computer isn’t going to start until it’s removed.”
“I have Norton,” Jerry tried to explain.
Quin shook his head. “Norton can’t detect it. None of the antivirus programs even know it exists.”
Curious in spite of himself, Jerry asked, “How’d I get it?”
Now Quin turned and looked at
Jerry over the top of his glasses. “A porn site.”
Suddenly Jerry’s palms felt slick and his heart started to race. “What? That’s ridiculous. I didn’t—”
“You’d be surprised how many people claim the same thing, Mr. Bennett.” Quin started typing again, even though the computer hadn’t finished starting up. “But the only way you could’ve gotten this thing is if you were on a website that’s on our company ban list.”
“How do you know?” Jerry countered. “Maybe it’s more widespread than you think…”
“Hardly,” Quin said. “I should know. I invented it.”
Jerry stared at him, incredulous. “What?”
Quin continued typing and didn’t bother looking at Jerry as he spoke. “I programmed our network to install the virus whenever one of the banned sites was visited. You visit a blocked page, you get the virus. Then you call me, I have to remove it, and report you for violating company policy.”
“Now see here—”
Jerry’s words dried up in his throat as Quin turned the laptop around. On the screen was an extremely graphic video showing a naked, muscular, sexy man stroking his hard cock. Jerry recognized the video—he should’ve, he watched it online last night, matching his own hard jerks with the buff porn star’s. He knew what came next, a second man, also naked, bent over the arm of a sofa, ass cheeks spread in anticipation. The first man advancing on the second, dick in hand. Pushing the tip of his cock between those sweet buttocks, the moans, the grunts, the hard thrusts…Jerry had watched the video twice before he allowed himself to get off on it.
Then he’d erased his browser history, cleared his computer cache, deleted his temporary internet files—he knew how to do that much, at least—and thought no one would be the wiser.
Now this.
Softly, Quin said, “You dirty old man.”
Jerry felt his face flush hot. “At least I’m old enough to legally watch it.”
“I turned thirty last month,” Quin informed him. “And you can’t legally watch it on a company computer.”