The Boss of Me

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 windshield wipers were pretty much shot on the trade-in minivan as I neared the used car lot, so I hoped what I glimpsed through the greasy streaks on the windshield was not what I thought I was seeing.

A young blonde scurried out of the side door of the small sales office in the center of the lot, flinching in the rain as she pulled the hem of a halter top down with one hand and tugged at the ass crack of her jean shorts with the other.

Was that Katelyn, my girlfriend? Two scraping passes of the wipers, smearing more rainwater, and she was gone around the back of the building. My heart fluttered against my stomach; I didn't know what that signaled, but instinct told me it was an alert coming from my fear center.

I flicked on the turn signal and pumped the brakes, which were definitely going to need some attention from Haskell before Russ agreed to put it out on the lot. As I reached the first entrance, that "insecurity alert" sent an override to my feet, and I let off the brake and goosed the throttle toward the entrance at the far end of the lot.

Pulling in, I drove the long way around the lot to the back of the sales office. That allowed me to scan the rows of cars, and then out across the side street. No sign of Katelyn. Maybe I was imagining things. But my gut churned with a sense that these games with Russ had just spiraled to a new level -- a level that crossed from the embers of fantasy to a full-grown fire that I couldn't control.

I parked the car in the back of the building, in front of the one service bay door. It was open, with a car on the hoist; Haskell glanced over from his work beneath it. A smile creased his dark, leathery face, and he shot me a "thumbs up." The gesture and the grin just churned my unease even more.

I jumped out of the van and jogged to the opening of the garage through the light rain. "Hey, Haskell.... You didn't happen to see Katelyn here, did you?"

"Katelyn, your girlfriend?" He glanced away from his work to meet my eye, and then turned his gaze back upward again. "Now why," he said, pausing to grunt with exertion on a bolt above him, "why would Katelyn be here?"

My mind had gone to a bunch of paranoid places to answer the "why," and Haskell's non-answer answer didn't help. "I dunno, thought I mighta saw her," I said. "No worries." I walked into the bay and past Haskell, toward the door that led into the sales office. I glanced at the cupboard to the left of the door, and felt a pang of relief that the door to it was closed and padlocked.

"Hey, Petey," Haskell said, and I whirled around probably a bit too fast.

"Yeah?"

"What's the road test report on that van? I'm guessing that will be my project for the rest of the week."

"Uh, yeah. Brakes, for sure. The windshield wipers are useless. There's a wobble coming from the back right, not sure if it's a bent rim or something worse."

"Could always be something worse," he said, turning back to his work.

"Sure could," I sighed, and walked through the door into the hallway leading to the sales office. I passed the employee bathroom/showerroom on the right, and then the alcove with the coffee maker, small fridge and sink. Then, on the left, two office windows in succession, each with the blinds drawn. That sent a shiver down my spine that weakened my legs. Russ's office, with the blinds closed.

The hallway opened into a small waiting room, which as usual had no one waiting. I turned left at the corner, passed the other window to Russ's office, and then exhaled nervously as I came to the open doorway. Russ leaned forward onto his elbows, which were anchored on the desk, and his stubbled chin was resting on his hands, their fingers interlocked. The top button of his short-sleeve white work shirt was undone, his tie was loose, and I could see a reddening and sheen of sweat at the base of his neck.

"That was a long trip to the Mother Ship," he said, referring to the new-car dealership one town over.

I couldn't breath; it felt like I had to heave to get each word up out of my throat. "Was that Katelyn I saw leaving the building?"

A glimmer of amusement seemed to crease the hardened features on Russ's face. The hairline below his crew cut rose a bit with his eyebrows as he expressed mock wonderment, and he shook his head slightly, slowly.

"What did you THINK was going to happen," he said. "You've had all summer to see what talk turns into."

I exhaled as if I'd been stomach-punched, and looked down, pondering everything, After several seconds, I heard the squeak of the caster wheels on Russ's office chair, and I slowly looked up and saw what I expected to see. Feared to see.

Russ now was upright and back in the chair. When he made sure I was looking, he straightened his arms against the edge of the desk and rolled back toward the wall. He was naked from the waist down, except for black dress socks, and his mostly flaccid cock lolled like a stuffed sausage overhanging the chair between his thighs. It glistened from its bulbous uncut tip all the way into the dense patch of salt-and-pepper pubic hair, which was matted with the greasy aftermath of sex.

When the the chair was against the wall, Russ leaned back and put both hands behind his head. He planted his feet at 45 degree angles from his groin. "Plenty of time to talk later. You know what to do."

I swallowed the distaste in my throat, and, as if directed by an unseen controller, felt myself moving toward the opening in front of Russ's sex. I dropped the keys to the minivan onto his desk, and sank to my knees.

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

I'd turned 18 the week after commencement, and the fun of nonstop parties in the wake of getting out of high school was halted abruptly by my mother one bleary Saturday morning at the kitchen table.

"You have an interview at 8 a.m. Monday," she said matter-of-factly from the coffeemaker.

"An interview? For what?" I said, looking up from my cereal bowl.

"A job. You want to stay here rent-free this summer, you're going to work." She came and sat next to me at the table. "It's fine if you don't want to work. But if you're not working, the rent is $250 a month."

"Whaaa, wait..." I began, before getting her point. "Ah. Ha. All right, all right. What kind of job?"

My mother worked in a real-estate title office in our small town. She was the supervisor for that office, which was part of a larger franchise.

"I had to go close some paperwork on a large land deal with Art Cleveland...."

"As in, Art Cleveland Auto Mall over in Twin Valley?" I said.

"Yes, that Art Cleveland. He wants to open another lot on Highway 85 toward Bryce City, and he was finally able to negotiate a deal for the land. Anyway," she continued, "you know that used-car lot in town, across from the Thayer's Market? Well, he owns that, too."

"OK," I said.

"And we were chatting, waiting for the other party to show up to close the paperwork, and he said he was having trouble finding help."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks for volunteering me, Mom. What's the job."

"He called it a 'lot boy' -- fetch parts, bring trade-ins over from the main lot, wash and prep cars."

"Better than last summer," I muttered, referencing the job my mother "helped" me get at at trailer factory. That was one long, hot and dirty summer break.

Monday morning, I was up and showered early. I put on my cleanest jeans and a short-sleeve collared shirt, then drove over to the used-car lot. I parked in front of the picture window in the front; inside it was a classic car of some sort, something from the 1930s. Bells on the entrance door jingled when I stepped in. There were two offices on the right; beyond the classic car on the left was a small waiting area -- a table with magazines, three chairs.

I didn't see or hear anyone, but I was 10 minutes early. "Hello?" I offered, and walked to the door of the first office. there was a desk, chair, filing cabinet and corner lamp, but the desktop was clean. I moved to the door of the second, and it was clear this was the manager's office. A stacker full of papers on the corner of the desk, a tool-company calendar with the month's pinup grinning from the wall over a filing cabinet; a white coffee mug browned from overuse.

"Good morning!" The jovial baritone startled me, and I ducked back out of the office to see an older, sturdy Black man in a blue jumpsuit, cup of coffee in his hand. "Can I help you?" I recognized his face; in a small Midwestern town, a tall dark man was going to be unique.

"I'm here for a job interview with Mr. Wicks," I said. "Name's Pete, Pete Robbins." He shifted his coffee to his left hand, and stepped toward me with his right hand extended.

"Haskell Bates. I'm the mechanic here," he said, his large hand firmly encircling mine. "Boss is in the shower. Want a cup of coffee?"

That struck me as odd, and he must have seen the confusion on my face. He patted my shoulder and steered me forward, toward a hallway to right of Mr. Wicks' office.

"Ha! Well, this isn't real a showroom-type place. It started a long time ago as a car-repair garage. That old car in the window? That's restored from those days." He stopped at a counter and pointed at a coffee pot. "Care for a cup?"

"No, thanks," I said. "Don't drink coffee."

"Anyway, this was a working-man's shop, so that's why we have a shower. And the boss has a habit of using it every morning." Haskell turned to refill his cup, and then I saw the door to the bathroom swing open.

"Haskell, are we finally gonna get that Honda off the hoist and onto the lot today?" came a sharp voice, and then before the sentence was finished a whirl of male nudity and worn white towel had appeared in the hallway.

Haskell gave me a wink and said, "Boss, meet Pete... Pete what-was-it?"

"Robbins," I croaked, stunned and not knowing what to make eye contact with. Mr. Wicks lifted the towel to scrub off his crew cut, then wipe out each ear. My eyes were definitely up, in a hundred-yard stare past his head, but my peripheral vision picked up the dark cross outline of hair, from shoulder to shoulder and then down his chest and stomach.

The flickers of what I saw when he had burst through the door now filled out the profile, against my will: There was a large, dark object that had flopped like it had a life of its own between his thighs. At no point did the towel cover it, but once I saw it, it was everywhere -- in my head, all around me, in every space between us.

Mr. Wicks stepped up without modesty and shook my hand. "Call me Russ. Thanks for coming over... you're early or I'm late, or both. Whatever... get yourself a cup of coffee and wait in my office. I'll be there in a minute."

He turned and I watched his hairy, solid back and ass disappear back into the bathroom.

"Hope that don't bother you," Haskell said. "He's an old military guy, was a drill sergeant in the Army. He don't embarrass."

"I can see that," I said.

"He used to make a point to shower with the new recruits to intimidate 'em a bit," Haskell said with a chuckle. "Let 'em know who the 'big man' was."

I nodded slowly, wondering if there was a right thing to say. After all, I was supposed to be at a job interview.

"I'm gonna wait in his office," I said.

"All right," he said. "Good meeting you. Welcome aboard." I started to protest that I hadn't even interviewed yet, but simply went back to Russ's office and waited in the visitor seat across the desk from his chair.

A minute later, Russ strode in carrying the coffee pot and sat across from me. He wore a short-sleeve white shirt, and striped tie and a pair of khaki pants. He poured a full cup into his old stained mug, then opened the bottom drawer of his file cabinet. He produced another coffee mug, filled it and slid it over to me.

"Uh, sorry, I don't really drink coffee," I apologized.

"'Don't really?' What's that mean?" he laughed. "You will. And the kind we make here will put some hair on your chest."

That made me oddly self-conscious. He was a brick of a man, stout at about 5 foot 9 and solid everywhere. I was taller, just shy of 6 feet, and thinner than I'd like. And to his point, hairless. I had light brown hair that blonded out in the summer, and light down hair on my legs and forearms. But otherwise, I was smooth.

I put my hands around the mug, mostly for warm comfort. "My mom was talking to Mr. Cleveland, and he said you have an opening for a helper."

"Yep, sure do. Got a valid driver's license?"

"Yes, and my own car."

"Ever been in trouble with the law?"

"No. Unless you count getting caught toilet-papering."

Russ snorted. "Ha! Out skylarking, huh? I hope the cops put the sweats on you."

"Yes, sir. One of them said something to the effect of, back in the day he would've put a boot up our ass."

Russ laughed and took a sip of his coffee, hot and black.

"I woulda done the same. Anyway, you can't work like that," he said, poking his cup out at me. "You're gonna need an old T-shirt and shorts, because you're gonna get wet and dirty every day. Matter of fact, bring a couple changes of clothes and some towels, and put them into the washroom."

"Uh, isn't this an interview?" He laughed, stood up and reached across the desk toward my face. I flinched a bit, but before I knew it he had two fingers on my jugular.

"You got a pulse, you're breathing, and it looks like you can lift at least half your weight. When can you start?"

"Uh, tomorrow?"

"Don't you live here in town?"

"Uh, yeah...."

"All right, then. Get on home and change, and get back here. I'll have you trained by lunchtime."

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

Everything was familiar: The view from my knees between Russ's legs. The ominous dark beauty of his cock. The musky smell of his crotch. Even the mixture of his cum and a woman's pussy juice, a cocktail that had intoxicated me many times. But everything was different. This was my girlfriend's nectar. I had no sense of where I stood in the world, where I belonged, what was next. But I knew what to do.

I slipped my left hand under the half-sheathed, purpled head of his cock and the adjoining 3 or 4 inches, and lifted his blood-heavy shaft away from the chair and his right thigh. Reflexively, my hand tightened to feel the girth; even half-hard, it was substantial. He shifted his chair, pushing his ass a little more off the edge, and let out a sigh.

By rote, his right head found the back of my head just as my lips parted and my tongue lapped at the point where the underside of his cock met the top of his ball sack. He pulled me tight, grinding my hose into his moist, pungent pubic hair as my mouth, slick with anticipatory saliva, vacuumed the bottom of his shaft, down between his nuts, and then, without any assistance from my free hand, burrowed down under his hairy sack to his taint.

The mixture of heterosexual sex sauce, his sweat, and the musk from his glands made me woozy. He slid even farther in his chair and widened his stance, and without prompting my face plowed between his ass cheeks. He keened a long steady moan as the flat of my tongue slurped over his brown pucker, the only hairless part of his body.

I ate like I was starving, more than I ever had with Russ, even as a pit stayed rooted in my stomach. I couldn't process everything this meant, for today or the future. But eating Katelyn off of Russ's cock, balls and ass had taken me somewhere I'd never been. My insides were a mess, but my cock was rock-hard against my left thigh and leaking like a faucet under my shorts.

Russ cupped his balls with his left hand and moved them up and away from the action; I glanced up without stopping my slurping and made eye contact. His face was relaxed, and his jaw hung open in something between awe and mirth. His cock had swollen in my left hand to full hardness, and now each stroke that pulled his foreskin partially off his plum-sized glans produced another eye-dropper full of pre-cum. My hand and his cock skin was so slick that a steady wet-suction sound provided a rhythm track to the tongue bath I was giving him.

I felt the pressure of his hand on my head turn into a fistful of hair, and he lifted my head and brought it to the grip I had around his meat. "Clean your hand, then clean your girl off my cock," he commanded.

Without removing my hand or stopping my steady stroking, I began licking his man-lube off of my fingers. I was slow and thorough, first with every finger and in the crotches between them; then I pulled his foreskin gently but fully off the enormous cock head. Starting an inch below the head, I applied long, flat, wet slurps of my tongue upward and to the slit, burrowing my tongue tip in for more treasure.

I repeated that motion on all four sides of his cock. When it seemed clean, I massaged his right testicle, encircling it between a thumb and forefinger and gently tugging downward. After a couple cycles of that, I put the thumb from my other hand at the base on the underside of his cock, and kneaded upward in one smooth motion.

Instantly, a stream of pre-cum burbled out of the tip of his cock. I greedily lapped it up, then repeated the cycle on his left nut -- with the same reward at the end. The technique was just one of many things Russ taught me that summer, and most ended with him sighing and me intoxicated with the unending wonders of raw animal sexuality.

With two full shots of pre-cum in my belly, I moved down his shaft licking up the remaining sheen of his previous sexual encounter. A thick gob of mess awaited where the joint of his cock met his thick, curly pubic patch. She must have been on top of him somehow, because there was a puddle of jism slicking his patch. But it wasn't all cum; there was the unmistakable essence of my girl.

I'd been dating Katelyn all summer, but the furthest we'd gone is mutual oral sex. That was enough, of course, to know her brand of pussy perfume. I loved to smell it in the car after I'd dropped her off for the night and was driving home; I loved it on my fingers the next morning when I woke up in bed.

This was a million degrees different; the taste on my tongue was tart, pungent, and full of mating hormones. I felt like I was violating someone else's -- or better yet -- a couple's sacred space. A breeding space, and ownership space. At at once, even as I stroked Russ's cock and lapped at his shaft, I choked out a sob.

Russ pulled my hair from behind, raising my head away from his groin. He hadn't moved his head from the reclined position, and his expression hadn't really changed. Wordlessly, he lifted his left hand and placed it on my right cheek. He looked in my eyes and nodded like, "Yeah, this is what's happening." His thumb traced back and forth under my eye, and that's when I felt tears on my cheek.

Russ slid his hand down my cheek, and slid his thumb into my mouth, and over the surface of my tongue. I instinctively closed my mouth and suctioned all around the thick tip and first knuckle, tasting the saltiness of my own tears.

"That's right. That's my boy," he said. A moment later, he roughly fish-hooked the thumb into my cheek and rooted it around until I opened my mouth with a gasp. In one coordinated move, he dropped his left hand to grip the root of his cock, and the right hand that had never released my hair pushed my mouth down over the slickened head of his cock.

"Ahhhhhhh fuuuuuuccckk yeeeeahhh...." he growled has he pistoned my head on his stump.

"Mmmph glurk glurk glurk..." was my response. Wetness was everywhere, from my tears of loss and tears of surrender and tears from the gag reflex. My saliva ran off my chin and down his shaft, drenching the pubes and nuts I'd just cleaned.