This is a work of fiction; any resemblance of a character to any person, living or dead, is unintentional. The stories in this series are set in the early 1990s.
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The morning light came too soon and it was not appreciated. It heralded not another fresh day, but instead a continuation of an unresolved struggle between my comfortable persona as a "normal teen" and my increasingly erratic young man behavior.
That suggestible man-boy wasn't listening much to the teen lately, and as they wrestled I careened further and further from the safe base of everything I thought I was. Russ and Haskell had seen to that. How much was a planned incursion, rather than me just fluttering into their flames of nonstop omnisexuality, like some kind of clueless moth, was part of what was tearing me apart. Maybe I wasn't clueless... that was the hardest part to contemplate. Maybe I wasn't even a virgin anymore.
I rolled away from the light coming from my bedroom window and turned off the alarm clock. I could hear my mother in the kitchen, but it felt too early to get up. I rolled my tongue around my sleep-dry mouth and instantly, I was reminded of leaving work yesterday, taking the long way home as I tried to make sense of what had happened to me. And rolling down the window, trying to spit out not just the slimy remains of man-spunk in my mouth, but also the dank aftertaste. Over and over, but here it was still when I woke up. It hadn't been a dream.
"Fuck just one goat..." Russ had brayed at me in one of the countless sex-themed monologues I'd heard over the past two weeks. Yeah, I hadn't gone that far... yet. But I'd had more sexual encounters with a man in that time than I'd had with my own girlfriend.
The more I thought, the worse I felt. I rolled out of bed, and slipped on some gym shorts and a T shirt. I was hungry and wanted to get out to the kitchen before Mom cleaned up breakfast, but felt a cloak of shame. I hoped my parents wouldn't notice.
"Hey, sport," said Dad, looking up from his coffee and newspaper. "You're up early for a Saturday."
"Uh, huh, yeah," I mumbled, forcing myself to stand straight and make eye contact when every part of me wanted to shrink away. "Mr. Wilks wants me to help him move a bunch of cars that haven't sold out to an auction lot. He said he'd pay overtime."
"You can save that money for college," Mom chimed in from the stove, not turning around.
"Yeah, of course," I said, but my mind was wandering. As famished as I was, the greasy smell of cooking meat curdled on the back of my tongue. It triggered a small gag reflex, which immediately took me back to being manhandled the night before, and the taste of cum coating the back of my mouth. I took a self-conscious glance at my father. I felt different, exposed -- didn't he sense it?
"Sit down, eat," my mother said as she put a platter of bacon and a large bowl of scrambled eggs in the center of the table. She turned and took orange juice and plates from the counter behind her, and put those on the table, as well. I was still standing. If I ate, it would be an act.
She tugged at my arm until i was in the seat. "If you're working all day, you need something substantial in your stomach." I exhaled an involuntary grunt at the irony of that comment, and hoped she didn't catch it. But she was onto something.
"What's wrong, Petey?" she said, and I had to work not to wince. Even my pet name was starting to sound different to me. "Is that job getting to you?"
"Manual labor gets to a lot of people," Dad said as he scooped eggs onto his plate. I did a virtual eye-roll at the hypocrisy of that comment -- he was a finance guy, had been in office jobs his whole career.
"Girl problems," I lied, although again my brains were so scrambled I wondered if I'd just revealed some piece of subconscious psychology.
"Like what?" she asked, but didn't wait for a response. "You know, I warned you not to get too tied up with her. She's a nice girl, but you're going to college and you don't need that distraction back home."
"Yeah, maybe that's it," I said, pushing eggs around my plate. "I'll figure it out."
Mom poured a glass of orange juice for me. "I know you know, but I'll say it again: You get her pregnant, and you'll ruin your life."
"Thanks, Mom. I don't think you have to worry about that." That statement probably had never been more true.
Dad looked over his newspaper. "I think your Mom might be remembering our time as teens. Ain't that right, Dottie?" he said with a lecherous grin.
She stood and pushed a dish towel into his face. He broke into a self-satisfied cackle, grabbed her haunches and pulled her into him. My stomach churned, and it wasn't from the middle-aged slap-and-tickle show at the breakfast table. I pushed my chair back, sighed and rose to go see what a day with Russ had in store for me.
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The day before had started out normal -- or as normal as any day could feel in the days following the shower-room interaction with Haskell.
That washing down was fine... appreciated, even. I would have had no good way to get myself out of that oily mess alone. But I was shaken by the happy ending he fashioned for himself, as he jerked out a massive load onto the tile wall while he clutched my upper body for support.
The weirdest part was this: It never felt like he was "coming on" to me. He cleaned me efficiently, and even when he brushed his hands over my cock I didn't feel like he was doing anything TO me. In fact, when I realized my penis was throbbing, I immediately felt a wave of surprise and shame. Why was I aroused? And was it at the situation -- the hot water and firm hands and soap? Or was it something about Haskell? There was nothing about him that attracted me. Nice guy, not a bad-looking man and a pretty good body for his age, which had to be late 40s. Ebony skin, and a truly impressive cock. But it's not like I would walk away from Katelyn at a party to hit on him.
Yet there I had been, transfixed in the shower as his body flexed and pulsed against me. And then, after he casually toweled off and walked away, scooping up some of his cum off the wall, mixing it with soap, and stroking my own cock to a knee-buckling orgasm within a dozen strokes. And by knee-buckling, I mean ending up squatted on the shower floor with spray beating down on me. No longer cleansing -- baptizing, it seemed.
I avoided him as much as I could on the job after that. Things actually lined up well in that regard; it now was the last week of the month, and both men had an increased urgency to their work -- Russ actively calling people who'd been browsing cars, trying to close deals, and Haskell prepping vehicles that Russ had successfully moved off the lot. That Wednesday, Russ told me to stay clear of the office during lunch time for the rest of the week.
"Go home, or eat in your car," he said. "I got less than three days to hit sales goals for my bonus, so there's no time for grab-ass."
That was fine with me. The first day on the job, I saw both men's horse-like cocks. And Haskell had blown a load while soaping me up. While I'd mostly steered clear of Haskell since then, every encounter with Russ included some kind of lewd talk, sexual reference, salty joke -- usually punctuated with a crotch grab or leering wink.
Part of me was appalled, but an unsettled piece of me was leaning in. I was as horny as any other 18-year-old, and so far my summer tally of orgasms was about 50 for my right hand, and zero for Katelyn. We made out heavy, I felt up her boobs and pussy, she stroked my cock and we both fumbled our way through oral sex. But I hadn't cum once with her, and to the best of my limited knowledge of female sexuality, she hadn't orgasmed from anything I'd done to her, either.
