The Boss of Me Pt. 01

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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.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The day before had started out normal — or as normal as any day could feel muş escort 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.

So seeing the casually ribald attitudes and behavior of my boss and his sidekick appealed to something wanton in me. It felt forbidden, but not wrong. It felt electric, but not repellent. It felt extremely masculine, but not gay.

When I was younger and sorting through my first sexual impulses, I remember seeing a photo of a topless woman in a magazine a friend showed me. “OK, tits… check,” I remember thinking. But what’s under that triangle of cloth on the bottom? The reality ended up being more exotic and fragrant than I could have imagined.

Now, I wondered, what’s under this surging force consuming my thoughts, and my groin?

Friday morning of my that second week, amid the sales blitz, Russ found me out on the lot.

“Petey, I need you on a job,” he said, and thrust some paperwork and a set of keys toward me. “I’m trying to close a deal, but the Mother Ship won’t approve it until they see the trade-in up close and personal. So, run it up to Twin Valley.” He jabbed a thumb at a tired green Chrysler New Yorker sitting in front of the building.

“OK,” I said. “Do I wait until they say yes or no?”

“Nah, it’s a formality. That car ain’t coming back here,” he said. “So Haskell’s gonna follow you up there, bring you back. Main thing is, I’ve got until 5 o’clock to close this deal. I’m one sale away from my bonus, so don’t fiddle-fuck around.”

My mind short-circuited as soon as I heard that Haskell was going to drive me back to the dealership. I sleep-walked over to the New Yorker and, as I was getting in, saw Haskell pulling around from the back of the building in the old red pickup truck we used as the service vehicle for the lot. He pulled up and gave a short salute.

“Don’t mind no speed limits, Petey. Boss needs to close this deal yet today.” I nodded, and turned the engine over after a few cranks. Each grind of the starter seemed to stoke the fire in my stomach.

The transfer at our main office was smooth; the used car manager didn’t even really take a look at the car when I handed him the keys. “Tell Russ I’ll call him within the hour,” the escort muş man said, and turned back toward the building.

I could hear the pickup truck idling behind me, with Haskell at the wheel. I exhaled deeply, turned around and walked over to the passenger side. I slipped in beside him, he dropped the truck in gear and we swung out to the road. It would be an awkward 10 minutes or so back to Stockdale.

Haskell kept his eyes on the road, and hummed softly. I wanted to turn the radio on, but felt riveted into place, almost as if any movement by me would break the seal over what had happened. As much as I’d rather have had it stay under wraps, Haskell wasn’t having it.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Petey,” he said. “I can guess why, but I’d rather have you say it.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said. My tongue felt stuck to the back of my mouth.

“Well, unless you get yourself fired, we’re gonna work together for the next couple months.” I was silent, looking straight ahead. He nudged my arm gently with his right fist.

“Look at me,” he said. I turned, and he was looked at me, unblinking, but with a gentle expression. “Did I hurt you?”

I thought for a second or two, then shook my head. “No. No, you didn’t.”

“Then, I helped you, right?” That caught me a bit off guard; I’d focused so much on the sexual tension of the shower, and his prodigious climax, that I’d almost forgotten how helplessly covered in oil I was. And my own explosive ending.

“Yeah, of course, Haskell,” I blurted. “I… I appreciated that. I was kind of in a state of shock. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

“Well,” he began, “there’s something you oughta know. If you haven’t already figured it out.” He stopped talking until I turned to look at him, and once I did, he turned back to the road and began.

“Mr. Wilks and I are open about everything. We go way back to the Army. We’ve seen a lot, and we’ve done a lot… together. We’ve got what you might say are open minds about things.”

I was surprised and a bit chagrined about how I immediately heard that in a sexual way. But I rolled with it.

“So, you guys are together, like lovers?” I said. Haskell laughed and slapped the steering wheel with both hands.

“Ha, ha ha! No, no, son. I mean, we’ve BEEN together at the same time in lovemaking situations, and we ain’t shy about seeing one another naked, but we’ve never laid a hand on each other.”

My imagination was swirling with the impulse to construct the scenario in which they’d be having sex, but not together. And also, what would he have called what he had he done with me?

“The shower….” I said, part question and part confusion.

“Well, one thing neither Mr. Wilks or I are shy about is going with our impulses, Petey. I needed to clean you up, but in that situation, I couldn’t deny that soaping your body had an effect on me. I didn’t ask permission, but you didn’t put up a fight, either.”

I swallowed and stepped into it. “I didn’t know what to think, but I’ll admit, it didn’t occur to me to tell you to stop.”

“Right,” Haskell said. “There ain’t nothing bad about feeling good. No one got hurt, and far as I know, we walked away happy.” He tapped my thigh and clarified: “Clean and happy!”

“So… I don’t know how to think about this, let alone say it,” I said, haltingly. “That… wasn’t ‘gay’?”

Haskell smiled, then glanced at me. “I don’t do labels,” he said. “I’ve known Mr. Wilks a long time, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way. More so than me, probably. We are given a certain energy, and humans all want to connect, right?”

I nodded, then it was quiet for awhile. Probably less than a minute, but it grew more electric with each second. I startled when he laid his large hand on my bare thigh.

“Easy, there,” he said, but didn’t move his hand. I felt a insistent tingle surging into my balls. “No one means you no harm, that’s for sure. Mr. Wilks is gruff and tough, but he ain’t gonna hurt you. Give him a chance, and he might teach you some things. He molded men for a living, you know.”

Haskell put his hand back up on the steering wheel, and my heart moved back down out of my throat. The tingle in my crotch dissipated, but I could feel thickness pressing against my jeans shorts.

“How did you know him?”

“We worked together on the same base for more than 10 years. He was a drill instructor, and I ran the motor pool.” He stopped talking, and after a few seconds I sensed he was waiting for me to ask the next question. Perhaps the most obvious question.

“And that’s how you met him, through the motor pool?”

Haskell smiled, but kept looking at the road. “Good question, and the answer might help you understand what we were talking about a minute ago. I met him because we both were getting blow jobs from the same person.”

“A man?”

“That’s right. The camp quartermaster. He didn’t come off as gay but, you know, when you’re around men all the time, year in and year out, you’re gonna muş escort bayan pick up signals.”

“This man, the quartermaster — he introduced you to Russ?”

“Sorta.” Haskell turned and caught my eye with a little gleam. “Let’s say, he told us separately that he wanted to try a threesome. A threesome, he said, with ‘two Alpha males.’ He wanted all the attention on him, and he wanted to service us both. At once.”

“Wow,” I said, shaking my head. And “wow” pretty accurately described what I felt inside. My mind had an image of these two men, these two epic cocks, working over a submissive man, all for their own satisfaction.

“You never felt, uh… uh…”

“Gay?” Haskell chuckled. “Nope. There’s sex, and there’s love and attraction. They can be a package deal, or two of the three, or just one. It’s never seemed that complicated to me.”

“So, then… last week in the shower?”

“Ninety percent getting a job done, ten percent reward for a job well done.” That wording cracked me up.

“Well then… well done,” I said a bit sheepishly, and that made Haskell laugh. At once the tension seemed to release. We were drawing close to the lot, and Haskell shifted over to the business at hand.

“You go back to your work on the lot, I’ll tell Mr. Wilks the drop went OK and that he’ll get a call soon.” He stopped midway down the row of used cars closest to the road, under a rainbow-colored string of plastic flags fluttering in the breeze. I swung out of the truck and closed the door.

“Hey, Petey?” he called through the open passenger window.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Wilks and I are gonna be working late today, it being the last Friday of the month. After you punch out for the day, stop by and see me. I got something to show you that you might be interested in.”

I started to ask a question, but he gassed the truck. It lurched away, and disappeared around the side of the building.

My mind raced the last hour of washing cars, and I felt a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. “Show you something…?” I’d already seen a lot of Haskell. Each time I began to form scenarios for when I came by after work, it veered toward something involving the dark slab of meat between his legs. My conscious mind would race in, and try to conjure some kind of work context. But what? Show me an antique set of tools his father had given him? I ran out of mundane ideas pretty quickly.

My imaginings were interrupted by a Cadillac swinging into the lot and going past me a bit too fast. I glimpsed the attractive brunette behind the wheel, her eyes hidden by oversized sunglasses. She pulled the car up to the office door, not quite square in a parking space.

As she stepped out, her hair tumbled down to the top of a one-piece sleeveless summer dress, which accentuated her slim but shapely figure down to mid-thigh. A pair of high heels made her defined calf muscles pop as she strode to the door, carrying a leather satchel.

I worked quickly to finish the last few cars, and the lot horn sounded just as I was rolling up the hose toward the building. It was finally 6 p.m. on a Friday. I had plans later, going out to Duck Isle with friends for a bonfire and beer. But that wouldn’t be for a few hours. My stomach fluttered as I collected my bucket, soap and chamois and headed toward the service bay.

Haskell was washing up in a service tub on the left wall of the shop. He didn’t notice me come in until I dropped the rolled up hose and bucket inside the entrance.

“Hey Petey,” he said breezily. No mention of anything else, so I walked over the time clock. It was on the wall by the door into the office space; as I neared, I noticed the cabinet hung to the left of the door. That door was usually locked, but today it was swung open all the way to the left. Inside was a television, medium sized and not turned on. Was this the surprise?

I punched out and turned around, and saw Haskell walking toward me in his blue, one-piece jumpsuit. He was drying his hands on a work rag.

“Ready for the show?” he said. My eyes got wide and I shrugged, not knowing what to say. He laughed, walked past me to the far right corner of the shop. He opened two other swinging doors, and inside a cabinet was a small refrigerator. He squatted down, and back up, and I saw a frosty brown bottle in each hand. He lined up the cap of one on the edge of the work counter and popped the bottle down with a quick slap of of his palm. The force caused foam to flow out in spurts, running down the dewy exterior of the bottles, as he repeated the process on the second beer. He strode over and handed me one.

“Happy Friday,” he said, clinked his bottle against mine, and took a long pull. After a satisfied sigh, he added: “You drink beer, right?” I laughed, mostly because I realized I’d just been standing there like a dummy.

“Yeah, of course. Cheers,” I said, and enjoyed the first cold wave wash over my tongue. Haskell took the beer back out of my hand, and set it and his back on the counter.

“Give me a hand,” he said, and turned and walked back over toward the far wall without waiting for me. I skipped the first two steps to catch up to him, and when he stopped we were in front of the old gray bench seat that had been pulled out of a van, and now served as a couch of sorts.

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