Big-dick Bottom Pt. 04

Author's note: This series contains (occasional) descriptions of rough and forced sex, some of which crosses the boundaries of consent. If this is not up your alley, please click elsewhere! All sexual contact described occurs between adults aged eighteen years and older.

Part 04

The rest of June was a blur. I worked every day, weekends included, delivering pizzas from three to close. I was putting hundreds of miles a week onto my old truck, but thankfully my grandpa had kept it in good condition before I inherited it. In complete honesty, the Blazer only had to last a couple more months until I went away to college. In the meantime, I was getting reimbursed for mileage at a rate that more than covered my gas expenses, and I was pulling in at least fifty dollars in tips most days on top of my hourly salary. I was feeling pretty flush. I'd never had money like this before.

Like a good son, I did what my parents wanted -- put the money away for college -- mostly. I packed the cash away in a shoe box in my closet and deposited my checks into a savings account. But I also indulged myself a little. I kept about twenty bucks on me at any given time, which I used to get an occasional soda and bag of chips at the gas station or a comic book from the arcade at the mall. And when Mario insisted on taking us out to Gio's after work -- something that happened at least a few times a week -- I was proud to be able to pull out my wallet and buy everyone a round of drinks.

"Uh-oh, Paulie's whippin' out his fat wad, here comes his big Lincoln!" Mario would shout, as I tossed a fiver onto the table.

Ever since he'd seen my hard penis in the bathroom at Gio's after my first day at work, Mario had been a little bit... weird. He developed the habit of making not-so-subtle references about my dick. I was embarrassed at first, but after a while his cheerful jabs began to seem like a normal feature of the job. And if I had to be honest, the attention he paid me wasn't entirely unwelcome.

For the first time in my life, here was a guy -- a man -- Mario, who didn't seem put off by me. In fact, it even seemed like he liked me... liked having me around. Initially I didn't really understand it and I was constantly braced to receive a jeer or an insult from him, like most of the guys I'd ever been around. After all, he was definitely a dude's dude. He liked sports and girls -- two of his favorite topics to discuss when we were out at Gio's, especially if Derek or Jason or Danny were with us. He talked about a string of girlfriends, although I never saw him with a date. And he was really physical with all the guys who worked at the restaurant. Like an overgrown puppy, he was always pawing at us or play-wrestling us or smacking our asses with a rag. With the women, he was less handsy, although he would occasionally play-punch Stacy's arm or slap her back appreciatively when she made one of her dry, cutting jokes.

When I asked Stacy if she and Mario had ever, you know... she just laughed and told me to pull my head out of my ass. He had drunkenly asked her out once, she told me, but she had been dating somebody at the time, a guy named Ben, and she had made it clear to Mario that she didn't need another alcoholic boyfriend. Since then, she said, they had been on easy, friendly terms. It was almost impossible not to be on friendly terms with Mario, she'd said. And when she'd eventually dumped Ben, Mario had been solid -- he'd even helped her move back into her grandma's place.

~

Most of the time, Stacy came along when we went to the bar after work. She'd ride with either Mario or me, or one of the other guys if they came along. Stacy didn't have a car -- the reason, she said, that she worked as an assistant manager when she'd much prefer to be a delivery driver.

"Are you kidding?" she scoffed, when I asked her why. "Stuck in that hot, shithole kitchen, sweating, reeking of grease and sausage, listening to Derek and Jason out-dumbass each other? No way. If I had a car... oh, baby... I'd be out on the road. Petal to the metal. In fact, if I had a car, I'd be long gone. Fuck Pizza Hut."

"But you get paid way more as a manager," I said.

We were sitting at Gio's, halfway into a second pitcher on a Wednesday night after work. Mario was at the bar, yelling and doing shots with a group of his cousin's friends. Derek and Jason were off in the corner, playing darts.

"After tips, I bet you take home more than I do," she replied, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth.

"Tips are unreliable," I countered.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure you do OK on tips," Stacy said, sarcastically.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"People have been asking for you, did you know that?" Stacy said. "Like, they call up and say, 'Hey, darlin', why don't you send over that little skinny kid?'" She lowered her voice and added a twang to caricature the voice of a dumb-sounding customer.

"Really?" I said, pretending to be surprised. I fiddled with my half-empty glass of beer. "That's so weird. Hey, did a lady really order three pizzas with no sauce or cheese today?"

"It's always the same guys, too," Stacy said, ignoring my attempt to change the subject. "Like, the same six or seven dudes. Our best customers all of a sudden. I mean, who wants to eat that much shitty pizza?"

I laughed, nervously.

Stacy snubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and then folded her arms, looking at me quizzically.

Oh boy. I took a deep breath.

~

So, my days usually went like this. I would wake up late. Nine or ten or even later. I would spy on the neighbors. After a short hiatus following my incident with the ginger, in which they seemed to disappear, the three of them -- daddy, son #1 and the ginger -- were back at it, moving earth and more recently laying large paving stones to form what looked to be some sort of elaborate terrace zigzagging down the slight incline of their back lot. I'd watch the neighbor daddy and his boys as I emerged from sleep, sometimes a bit hung over from my nights at Gio's.

Whereas before the ginger had been proud and cocky, strutting around in his makeshift tank tops, showing off his bulky arms, spitting and swaggering -- now he was cowed, bent, hunched and scuttling as he assisted his dad and brother plow or lay stones into the earth. Whatever had happened after his daddy had caught us in the shed, it had seemed to break him. He looked... weak.

Daddy, on the other hand, was even more eye-catching, if that were possible. More often than not, my eye would slide past the ginger and settle on daddy, watching his big thighs rub against each other as he swaggered around the yard, pointing and grunting, telling his boys what to do and where to do it. I remembered the feel of his hard, ridged cock pressed down by the palm of his hand onto my ass crack, rolling around in his spit.

I would stroke my erection and press my fingers against the clenched ring of my hole each morning, watching him. But I wouldn't come. I didn't let myself. I just used the friction I gathered from watching him and his sons to charge up and fuel my quest, my new mission each day: to find cock to suck out on the road.

At three I would arrive at work, pick up my first round of deliveries and see what the fates had lined up for me. Most days, those first deliveries were the least productive in terms of tips and also in terms of, well, the other perks I'd come to discover on the job.

Afternoon was the realm of the geriatric set, for the most part. Old people who thought that a reasonable window for dinner started at 3:30 PM. They were also the worst tippers, on average. Please, by all means, forget to bring your money to the door. I have plenty of time to wait while you count change out of your purse that you have to fetch from your bedroom when the pizza arrives. And that fifty cent tip you gave me because I'm such a "nice boy"... I tried not to let it bother me. I dug deep and smiled and said, "Thanks, I appreciate it." I was a good Lutheran kid, after all. Charity, humility, and all that.

Things tended to get interesting around the beginning of the dinner rush. I was doing a lot better at making my deliveries on time. My sense of direction had never been that great, but something clicked as I got more confident driving around the area. It was like I had an ever-growing map in my head -- I started to be able to visualize a route in my mind when I was handed a list of addresses. I learned the shortcuts I could take. After a few weeks, I knew where and how I could shave precious minutes off my route. And those minutes became even more valuable once I started to pick up a few "regulars".

I thought of it as my spider sense. A feeling I'd get sometimes -- impossible to describe, really -- when I'd ring a doorbell and a man would come to the door. Maybe something about the way he looked at me or the way he stood, it just set off my antenna. The first time, of course, was the beefy blond guy who fucked me out at the farm on my first day of work. I just sensed that there was something lurking behind his deep, green eyes. But pretty soon after that, there were others.

There was this older guy, maybe 45 or 50. He definitely wasn't a looker -- he was balding and kinda fat. When he first opened the door, I felt nothing out of the ordinary. Just another chubby dude ordering a large sausage pizza to eat by himself on a Tuesday night. But when we made eye contact, I felt something tighten in my groin and a shiver ripple across my back. He was wearing a bathrobe and his skin was still wet from a shower. As I handed him his pizza, his hand made contact with mine and I felt a pulse of desire surge between us. As I stood on the porch, he undid the loose belt of his robe. It swung open to reveal a round, furry belly. And hanging underneath was a ridiculously fat, almost beercan-thick, semi-hard cock.

He stood there, with a questioning look on his face. I went weak in the knees at the sight of his fat cock. I looked up at him and a second later I was on my knees, straining to get my lips around the head of his insanely thick dick. I can't say it was the most elegant blowjob I'd ever given. There was just no way to accommodate the girth of him without breaking my jaw or scraping his cock with my teeth. But he didn't seem to mind. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head onto his cock, teeth and all. He grunted like a boar as he fucked my face, and holy shit was he a big cummer. He pulled out of my mouth and sprayed my face with cum, and then pumped himself, slinging long ropes of semen across the back of my shirt, soaking it. After he came, he was a bit sheepish. He apologized profusely and tried to wipe up some of the mess he'd made on me with a flap of his robe.

"No worries," I said, hopping up to my feet. "I have napkins in the car."

He tipped me five dollars. "Wow, thanks mister," I said, genuinely surprised at the tip. "Enjoy your pizza, sir."

Curiously, five bucks seemed to be the going rate for the "extra services" that I provided on certain deliveries. It's why Mario was always ragging me for my "fat roll of Lincolns", or my "largess" as he would say, with a wink and a slap on the back.

Beercan was a pretty reliable weekly source of "Lincolns". Every Monday or Tuesday, and sometimes later in the week, too. Then there was "the cowboy", as I thought of him -- the blond out in the country with the insanely ridged cock head -- who ordered pizza for his day laborers every Saturday. Since his farm was a ways out of town, I really had to lead-foot it if I wanted to stay on-schedule, because, depending on his mood, I could usually count on him for a bona fide fuck. In the kitchen or in the barn, he would wrap his hands around my neck and ram his spit-slicked, knob-headed cock deep into my ass.

The second or third time he fucked me, he pulled my pants completely off and flipped me over onto my back. He grunted in surprise when he saw my penis. But he just started fucking me faster and even put his hand around my dick as he fucked me, jacking me off. Until then, I'd never orgasmed while being fucked, but his rough hand on my dick and the pounding of his cock in my ass sent me over the edge and I spewed cum up over his hand and arm. Then he pulled out and shot his load up onto my belly and chest. I pocketed my tip, always at least ten bucks, and trotted back out to my truck, dripping cum, past the group of guys chowing down on pizza in the driveway.

So yeah, Saturdays were generally good days.

I picked up a few more regulars over the weeks. Nothing too remarkable except maybe the guy I called "sad dad". The first time I delivered to his house, I heard a cacophony of shouting when a woman opened the door. As I handed her the order, four little kids ran through the foyer of the house, screaming -- one had an other's hair in her fist, and a little boy followed, sobbing, covered in what I hoped was chocolate.

"So sorry," she said, apologetically. "It's been a rough day." I smiled, sympathetically. She looked exhausted. One of the kids had come back and was trying to climb up her leg to get to the pizza.

"Oh, um, sorry. Wait here. My husband will be out in a sec to pay you, OK?" she said, peeling the child from her leg.

"Yeah, sure," I replied. She shut the door and I kicked at the dirt along the side of their porch wondering how long I was going to have to wait.

After a few minutes I heard the sound of an automatic garage door opening. I walked around to see a rumpled-looking man leaning across the passenger seat of a minivan.

"Left my wallet out here," he said, turning to me. When he straightened up, I saw that he was tall and broad, and while he had gone a bit soft in the waist, I could tell by his musculature that he must have been some sort of athlete as a younger man. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a faded T-shirt displaying the name of a local state college. I gulped when I saw the prominent bulge at his crotch.

He handed me a twenty-dollar bill. "Never have kids," he said, and he winked at me. He was smiling, but there was a pained look in his eyes. He looked just as exhausted as his wife.

"I don't think that's going to be a problem for me," I said, taking the money.

He squinted at me and cocked his head.

"What do you mean?" he said. My spider sense started to tingle.

I shrugged, but stood there, maintaining eye contact with him. He reached down and adjusted the bulge in his pants. My eyes dropped to watch the movements of his hand. The dad looked around and then grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back into the garage.

In the dim, yellow light of a hanging, exposed bulb, I sucked his cock as he leaned against the hood of his minivan. The guy was hung, for sure. Not as thick as Beercan by any means, and not as glorious as the cowboy's cock, but a good amount of length and girth with an interesting leftward twist. I struggled to get him down my throat but eventually I was able to take him all the way. He fucked my face in long, slow strokes, holding the back of my head for leverage. When he came, his whole body shook and I felt the spasms in his cock as he disgorged a disconcertingly huge load of cum down my throat. I wondered when the last time this guy had ejaculated. Had it been days? Months? Years?

When I pulled off of him, cum streamed out of my mouth and onto the concrete floor of the garage.

"Damn," he said, looking somewhat shocked at the scene -- my cum-covered face and his reddened, crooked dick still hanging out of his pants, shiny with spit in the dim yellow light. Gently, I put his dick back into his sweatpants for him and then pulled myself up to stand. He was still looking at me with a confused look. I felt boldness surge through me.

"Call again soon," I said, and walked back out to my truck. And he did. Twice a week, usually.

All in all, in short order, it was a rare day that I didn't have a customer's dick in my mouth. As the weeks went by, I went to the quarry less and less. I realized that I was just going out there in hopes of finding him again -- the big, muscle-soft guy. But he wasn't ever there, and these days I had plenty of access to miscellaneous dick at work. Sure, my anonymity was slightly more compromised when I was delivering pizzas, etc., than it was at the quarry. But I felt protected by an unspoken clandestine pact with the guys I serviced out on the road. I had their address, after all.

~

"So, yeah," I said, avoiding eye contact with Stacy while she stared silently at me across the booth. "I suppose I do have a few, um, loyal customers."

"Loyal customers? What does that even mean?" she replied.

I rubbed my ear and gave her a shrug, trying to appear casual. She wrinkled her eyebrows in annoyance. Then she leaned in toward me.

"Paulie, level with me, will you? You're gay, right?"

I stiffened and took in a loud, involuntary breath. Stacy reeled back with a surprised look and then reached across the table to grab my arm. I pulled it away from her. I felt fear flood my body, and I cursed myself for having had such a revealing reaction.

"Hey, look, it's not a problem with me," she said, quietly. "I could give less of a shit." She laughed and shook her head, then pulled out another cigarette.

I started to calm down a bit. And then, around the edges of the anvil of anxiety that had come down on me, I started to feel something else. A sense of relief. My shoulders relaxed and I sat back against the tacky wood of the booth seat. Stacy looked at me and cocked and eyebrow as she drew in a lungful of smoke.

"So?" she said.

"Yeah," I replied. "You're right.. I'm gay." Even more relief flooded my body.

"I knew it," she said with a smirk. "And good for you, really. It makes you more interesting than, like, 99 percent of these fuckwads." She waved her cigarette around at the crowd of people in the bar.

"Does Mario know?" I asked, looking over at Mario, who was still talking and laughing with the group of guys at the bar.

"I mean, probably?" Stacy said. "It's not like we've talked about it or anything... but, Paulie... c'mon. It's kinda obvious."

I felt a surge of indignation and frustration. Fueled, no doubt, by my life-long attempt to police my every word and movement so as not to betray my natural inclination toward... well, faggotry. But then I let it go. The cat was out of the bag. Stacy knew. For the first time, someone knew for a fact that I was gay, and didn't seem to hate me for it. I looked at her for a long beat.

"What, I don't scream John Wayne to you?"

Stacy snorted. She poured both of us another half-glass of beer.

"Cheers," she said, clinking her glass against mine. "Here's to your fabulous gay life, Paulie."

"Thanks," I said, still feeling chagrined.

"But back to what I was saying before, why the fuck are these guys calling up and asking for you to del..."

"Hey, hey! What are we toasting?," Mario said, suddenly appearing at the booth with Derek and Jason in tow. Mario slid in to sit next to me. He reeked of tequila. Stacy looked annoyed to be cut off, and shot me a look, but then she raised her glass.

"To Paulie... the sweet tit of Pizza Hut has been good to him these past few weeks," Stacy said.

"Hey, ho, Paulie-oh!" Mario said, and poured us all more beer from the pitcher. Then he raised his glass, sloshing beer over the side. "To Paulie and his massive success!"

We all cheersed and drank and I felt Mario's big mitt of a hand on my knee, under the table. He gave my leg a squeeze and then ran his hand up my thigh until he hit my crotch, then gave me another squeeze before taking his hand away. I felt blood surge into my dick and to my face.

"Hey," Mario said, wiping froth from his upper lip on the back of his arm, "you guys should come over to my place. My cousin's friends are coming over, we're gonna have an after party."