The Foreman Ch. 01

I work as night foreman at a San Francisco warehouse operation. Sounds like a dumb job and in some ways it is. However, it’s easygoing and has its moments. . . plenty of moments.

I was 32 and just a year or so back from overseas--somewhat brain dead--so the easy pace gave me time to heal. It wasn’t rocket science. It was basic intelligence, initiative and attention to detail.

The man management, woman management, person management or whatever it’s currently PC to term it didn’t even require a top sergeant’s moxie to handle. A corporal could have done it if he’d had a sense of humor. A sense of humor was important.

Moments means moments on the night shift. That was when it all happened . . . 9:00 pm to 6:00 am four days a week (Monday to Thursday) with short breaks, although I had leeway on that. Sometimes the shifts changed a little but that was basically it. That suited me fine because I was working out a lot and taking time out to laze around, play music, go to the beach, walk in the woods and generally wait for the output of that witches cauldron in which the universe concocts people’s luck.

We basically drop-shipped goods for entrepreneurs who advertised weird and wondrous gadgets on TV – those do-anything kitchen knives, incredible garden hose caddies that made the hose disappear, magic implements that took all the effort out of weeding; gadgets that would build an incredible six-pack in six weeks; that sort of thing.

The employees who roamed the warehouse finding the stuff required to fill orders were basically kids. Some were late high school kids on summer jobs while others were college kids, not only in the summer but throughout the year. A kid taking 20 hours a week—afternoon classes only—could hack a 7pm to 3am shift and still get plenty of beer drinking, fucking and sleeping time.

The kids generally used roller skates to get around. They wore shorts and T-shirts. The median age, male and female, was about 19.5 years. They ranged from 18 to mid-20s. None of them was ugly. You needed to have initiative and moxie to take the job in the first place and you needed to be fit to hack it. Sure we had dweebs—too tall, too skinny—glasses too thick—but they weren’t ugly because we all had a lot of fun. If I didn’t keep them laughing their peers did. They were good kids. I had rarely had cause to fire anyone.

They were good kids but the males were virile and pumped and the females—while not actually wearing T-shirts sloganed “I’ve got wet panties; Can you help?” were amenable to affectionate embraces.

The owners were fairly benevolent. They didn’t micro-manage. The deal was simple. I had to:

 keep up with the order flow  keep the employees happy  keep casing the operation for ways of making the process smoother

Some nights the pace was fast and furious. If a charity was running a phone-in and offering free gifts for various pledged amounts we would be swamped with orders. The charity would negotiate a contract with the owners and then the goods would arrive and be off-loaded tactically so that they were easy to find.

Nights like that we humped and I drove them like slaves. However, I often donned skates myself and skated around with them, turning it into a contest. Hours would fly by and nobody complained other than good-naturedly.

Other nights the pace was slower; sometimes only a crawl. Those were the nights when the troops got horny and a foreman making his rounds might come across anything from strenuous jungle fucking way back among the farthest pallets, to guys jacking themselves or each other, to girls giving BJs or taking a little partay.

We had few rules aboard our little ship:

 show up on time and be clean (shower before work)  no fucking, sucking or jacking in the warehouse proper; first offense—warning; second—suspension; third—hit the road  no smoking or toking in the warehouse; first offence—firing or strong, explicit warning at the foreman’s option

The packing table was different. Goods arrived by hand or on a conveyor belt . . . were matched with orders, labelled and passed along. A second handler applied postage and a third made sure the goods were safely packed in postal bags—which he or she periodically moved to a loading bay. The US Postal Service showed up every four hours to take another load—not wind, nor rain, nor hail, nor too much dope.

Orders arrived by computer. There was a small computer section just behind the packing table—screened off by four foot partitions which allowed communication. The computer gurus printed out single-sheet orders with pre-gummed address labels on them and passed sheaves of them to the packing forelady. My night forelady was Maria—a single mother, 32 years old, always smiling, nicely-dressed, attractive, insatiable. Most of the rest of the packing line were women, ranging in age up to the 50s. My night line usually had six women plus the computer crew (2) and one guy to lug the mailbags to the loading dock.

Tonight was my last night of the week an I was looking to a three-day break—and even more to its potential for new sexual adventures. It was 3am and I decided to cruise the warehouse which I tried to do once an hour or so just to check that everything was cruising along as it should. One was never quite sure what one would find down in the far pallets – the slightly less well lit back of the warehouse where slower moving lines were stored.

I grabbed a clipboard and went out and down the stairs onto the floor. I asked Maria if she were a happy bunny. She grinned and said she could think of things that could make her even happier than she was. I asked her whether she was free on Monday—my last day off. Maria had more or less the same shift as me. Maria and I had dabbled but not taken things very far. I was looking forward to having time and a clear head to pursue Maria a little more cogently. She said she’d get back to me. She had my home number.

I wandered along the wall of the warehouse, steel cladding on my right, stacks of pallets on my left, looking for smoke, leaks, electrical sparks, lurkers, pilferage—more or less any sign of impending problems. I then began to weave among the pallet aisles just relaxing and taking everything in.

I was near the back of the warehouse and deep in pallet country when I heard giggling, murmuring, sounds I associated with connubiality. I padded toward the sounds and had to step back quickly when—rounding a corner—I saw two lads wrapped in intimate embrace. The taller of the two was Malcolm, a 21-year-old that I had hired a few weeks before. He was a slim, well set-up boy, good-looking; sexy.

His companion was (I groped to think) . . . oh yes . . . David! whom I had hired just three weeks ago, a 19-year-old who looked as though he were going on 16. He had an innocent adolescent look which I recalled had given me a visceral jolt when I interviewed him. There had been someone else in my office so the interview was more formal than I might have liked. I knew from his resume that he was fine employee material and the interview had been relatively perfunctory.

Now I saw David in a new light, kissing Malcolm fervently and groping inside his shorts. I erected almost instantly, almost stumbling from excitement; sweat breaking out in beads on my brow. Both boys had their stiff cocks out now and were masturbating each other, groaning, giggling, murmuring endearments and kissing. I was aching to drop my own shorts and masturbate on the spot. My boner cried out for attention.

I debated whether to silently masturbate and then leave well enough alone . . . or whether to announce myself as an ally and join the fun. Neither seemed a good idea for a foreman on duty so I waited a moment, stroking lightly through my shorts; enjoying a mild edging feeling.

They were really getting into it now. David had dropped to his knees and engulfed Malcolm’s thick penis with his sweet mouth. I had never seen a porno film that could mimic the excitement of this voyeuristic encounter. I would have given anything to have a videocam in hand. However, it also occurred to me that if I caught them in the act I might be able to structure a scenario that would bring the three of us together in the future.

It would have been cruel to just walk over and catch them in medias res. Better, I thought, to just give them time to cover up while letting them know that I knew. I was still resisting the temptation to whip it out and just energetically masturbate on the spot. My cock was throbbing but I thought better of it. Instead I dropped the clipboard to the floor to give them a heads up, picked it up and then strode round the corner of the pallet stack where I’d been hiding.

Malcolm looked at me open-mouthed and David simply looked stricken. I thought he was going to have a pediatric heart attack and that I would have his death on my conscience for the rest of my life.

I gave them what passed for a stern look and said “Malcolm!!! In my office at 4.45am; David! I want to see you at 5:45. Understood?”

Malcolm squawked “it’s not what you think,” I said: “yeah right” see you then and stalked off. I held the clipboard over my erection as I passed the girls on the packing line and walked up the stairs back to my office. It was just after 4:30.

Back in my office I took Malcolm’s file out of the cabinet and had a look at it. He had a photo in there which must have been taken when he was 16 or 17. It looked a little younger and a little less truculent than I knew him to be. It was straightforward . . . high school graduate with reasonable marks, a couple of summer jobs, a letter from his minister; possibly the only time he had entered a church in years. The usual stuff. I leafed through the jacket to see if there was anything of further interest but at that moment he knocked the door. I yelled “Come!” and he came in, stood a few feet away from my desk and looked at me challengingly. I said: “Sit down, Malcolm.”

Malcolm was 21, according to his jacket. No major criminal convictions (well . . . no minor ones either). He sat not in one of the two straightback chairs in front of my desk but in an armchair a little to the side; an armchair that was too low for him and put him in a submissive position. He jiggled his knee up and down in that infuriating way that nervy people have and looked both defensive and truculent. Since his ass was barely six inches from the floor I was tempted to laugh.

“OK Malcolm . . . I guess you know why you’re here.”

“Yeah, boss.

He looked to the side and kept his eyes averted as if this was just one more boring trip to the principal’s office and as though I was just too square to be worth a glance.

“MALCOLM—LOOK AT ME!!!”

He snapped up as if a giraffe had stuck its wet nose up his ass and widened his eyes in a raptly attentive look.

“It’s one thing to get your cock sucked in the far pallets and another thing to diss your boss when he calls you in for it.”

He paused for a moment as if to summon some terminal put down and said:

“I didn’t actually get my cock sucked Boss. I’m losing on BOTH counts.”

I laughed.

“OK Malcolm . . . not bad.”

I had to admit he’d broken the tension. Then he said:

“Could I ask you Boss . . . uh . . . to just call me Mal.”

“OK Mal—I think Malcolm’s a good name—but hey….”

“Thanks Boss.”

He was beginning to seem less than totally hostile, I said:

“Nobody cares about your sexual preferences Mal, but I care about where you do the deed. If I can catch you it means some innocent girl can skate right into you guys. Now . . . maybe you think there’s no such thing as an innocent girl in this day and age but my responsibility is to ensure they’re not exposed to sex in the workplace when they haven’t asked for it……….and (warming to my theme) it could be a male . . . uh . . . a hardshell Baptist.”

I realized that I shouldn’t have said that and hoped Mal wasn’t a Baptist but he just laughed. Then, he said:

“OK, OK I can’t argue that Boss and I apologize but I gotta tell you . . . the last time I heard this pitch the guy wanted to make my bones.”

“As a condition of keeping your job?”

“Yeah.”

“Well that’s so highly-illegal Mal that a guy would have to be pretty crazy. It’s hypothetically possible that I might be after your body—but certainly not as a condition of keeping your job.”

He laughed, “OK.” And I laughed slightly as well and then said:

“So, you’ve done this before?” He shuffled a little and countered, “not often’.

I asked him if he wanted a coffee. My smallish office connected with a larger room which had a fridge, small TV, radio, microwave, coffee maker, sofa, small bathroom with toilet, sink and one-man shower (two if they were close friends). It interconnected with the administration offices on the other side of it. The sofa was out of sight of all three doors (a third door opened directly to the catwalk which all of the offices opened off, above the warehouse floor—you’ve all seen this layout a hundred times in the movies.

He looked a little happier and said ”. . . uh . . . sure . . . uh.” Looking around to see where it might be. I gestured into the “kitchen” room and pointed to the coffee maker. I followed him into the so-called kitchen room.

“Cream and sugar please Mal.”

I watched him make the coffees. I didn’t think it would be worth his while to complain about being a gofer. He fixed the coffee and brought it over. I gestured him to sit down on the couch beside me. He could have picked a nearby armchair but he didn’t.

I decided to sit and say and do nothing until he volunteered something. It worked. After about a minute and a half he said “this coffee sure tastes good . . . is it OK to smoke?”

There were ashtrays in the kitchen room and I smoked in my office occasionally so I said OK. He offered me a smoke and we both lit up.

He said nothing for another minute and then turned suddenly and said “are you gonna fire me?” I told him I doubted it. I wouldn’t be hanging with him over coffee and a cigarette if I were. I just wanted him to cool it with mutuals and BJs out on the floor.

“Do it in the parking lot Mal—in your car—out in the shadows—even in a bathroom stall if it just can’t wait.”

He seemed impressed with my candor and I said:

“I guess you were all set to say “fuck you . . . who gives a shit about your stupid job,” if I did.

He was a lean, rangy boy . . . tallish and good looking. Based on the brief examination I’d had down on the floor he was no David. There was nothing submissive about him but I figured he might at least be a switcher. I wanted to suck his cock but I sure didn’t want to be his bitch. In any event he laughed and said:

“You’re OK Boss. No, in fact I wouldn’t have said that. I love it here. I don’t see it as a career but I don’t have to take happy pills to face the place every night either. I would have been pretty pissed with myself actually.”

“OK, well I have no intention of firing you Mal. You’re a good worker and I have no complaints. I’m not gonna put a formal warning in your jacket but consider this a warning to beeeeeeeee kewl with your bad seff . . . OK?”

“OK Boss . . . thanks for giving me a break.”

I laughed and said “now about me wanting your body . . . “

He said “uh oh” and laughed again but before he could follow up I added “I’m way too old to be hitting on such a good looking young guy. Now he laughed heartily.

“Are you kiddin’ Boss. I never met a player who wasn’t into older men . . . well not 79 years old but ya get my drift. You’re right in the sweet spot Boss . . . course I don’t know if you’re pullin ‘ my leg or . . . uh . . . somethin’ more personal.”

I laughed and—since he wasn’t holding his coffee in his hands at that moment—gave him a friendly push against the arm of the sofa. He looked surprised for a sec and then pushed me back—not very hard—just enough to save face. I poked him in the ribs and tickled him—knowing that if he wasn’t ticklish the gesture would fall flat. He bunched up like an armadillo going under an 19-wheeler and said “OW . . .get off you bully.” It was the kind of horseplay which irritated me in others, so I knew I must be feeling nervous.

I sat back and laughed and we both laughed heartily together. I said:

“OK we’re clear that anything that might or might not happen between us has nothing whatever to do with your job Mal. You’re free to walk out of here any way you want to play it.”

I was thinking of offering him a Heineken out of the fridge but 15 minutes had gone already and boss or not I couldn’t keep him up here forever. But I had a good bone on and even though I didn’t want to come with Mal (saving it for David later) I was hoping to break the ice with him.

We looked at each other, each one unsure what the next move was. I said “you guys were very hot out there. I almost creamed my shorts. You must have lovers’ nuts by now unless you took a bathroom break.”

He looked rueful and said “not yet”. I asked him if he were still feeling horny . . . did he need some relief and I swear he blushed. He said:

“I wouldn’t say no, Boss.”

I said “c’mere kid” and ran my hand up the inside of his thigh and into the leg of his shorts. He moved into my arms and we sat cheek to cheek while I tickled his balls a little and fooled with his thickening boner. Our hug gradually turned into a kiss, first tentative, then longer and harder. His tongue probed my mouth and he moaned as I got a better grip on his boner and began to pull him off. He reciprocated, moving a band into my shorts and fooling with my erection.

I broke the clinch and slipped my shorts down to my thighs. Mal did likewise and we began kissing again, this time masturbating each other more passionately. I whispered that I wanted to keep my load on because I had a date later but I’d be glad to fix him up. Did he want a little mouth work. He moaned and said “oh yes” and I asked him to come kneel in front of me and give me a good face fucking. He got up energetically and knelt on the couch facing me. I let my head sink back onto the cushions, grabbed his muscular buttocks and pulled his stiff hard into my mouth, taking it deep into the back of my throat and teasing his pink anal bud with a fingertip.

His penis was thick in the middle and ovoid in cross-section . . . about seven inches or a little better; circumcised and clean. It had gorgeous mouth feel as he thrust in and out rapidly. It was obvious he wasn’t going to hang on very long before giving up his heavy load. I was floating on a golden cloud of desire, yearning for the tidal spurts of his orgasm to fill my mouth with its delicious texture. I licked and gulped and swallowed, fighting the gag reflex to take him down into my throat at each thrust. Within less than a minute he cried out and his first spurt filled my mouth.

I couldn’t swallow fast enough as his hot spurts creamed into my mouth and down my throat, spurts of jism shot from the sides of my mouth and I moaned with pleasure, my finger by this time an inch into his smooth ass. I licked him clean and softened the stimulation as his spurts died away . . . and then he giggled and pulled out because he’d hit the over-stimulation point.

Normally, I would have kissed him at this point and shared the sweet semen with him mouth to mouth. However, I was aware of the time and grabbed a couple of Kleenex to clean my mouth. I passed a couple to Mal to dry off his cock before slipping it back into his snow white underwear. Then I got up and went into the small bathroom opening off the room. I pissed and washed my hands and then came out. Mal went in and had a pee and came out. I gave him a hug and said I hoped he felt good. He giggled and said “what’s not to like . . . you’re the man Boss.”

About 20 minutes had passed. I knew Mal was off at 5am but I didn’t think he was going to put in for overtime. I said “I guess you’re going off for the weekend how huh.” He nodded. I said I’d walk him out to his car, and deked into the bathroom for a quick shot of mouthwash—remembering that David would arrive soon and possibly not want to taste Mal’s load on my lips if, as and when we kissed.