Sucking Up To The Boss

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My name is Becky.  And if you think that’s dull, wait till I tell you about the rest of my fucking pathetic life.  At the tender age of 18, I should be out getting laid on an exotic beach or in the back of the rusty Chevy pickup somewhere.  You know, blowing off a little youthful steam before my first year of full-frontal University.

            Alas, that plan was inexorably altered the day my dear sweet father invested the bulk of my college fund in a “can’t miss” opportunity. Needless to say, his shrewd business acumen immediately reduced the contents of my precious college piggy bank to dust and crumbs.  We were left completely destitute.  I couldn’t even afford a cell phone!  The most nettlesome happenstance resulting from this mysterious misfire in the world of high finance however, was the over-arching need to rapidly obtain a summer job or forget about school entirely.  Now, having to do anything rapidly very rarely turns out to be an unmitigated joy circus and that was certainly the case when it came to my search for gainful employment.  I ended up working as a clerk at this store that sold weird and icky medical items to old people.  These devices were scary enough all packaged up in their boxes, I can only imagine how frightening they were when those old dears got them home and had to stick them on or in wherever.  I mean, YUCK!

            The store was owned by Mr. Dinar.  He was this short portly guy who reeked of discount aftershave and premium scotch.  Dinnie must have been at least 60 and was he ever grumpy!  I mean cripes, if I showed up just a few minutes late, he threatened to dock my wages or call my parents.  What an old fusspot!  And if everything wasn’t displayed entirely correctly, he’d just grumble under his breath and fix it himself in front of me.

            By far the worst thing about working at the store was a shocking discovery I made about a week into my employ.  He sent me into the back one afternoon to dust during a “slow period” and there they were; hidden behind a pile of discontinued catheters.  The most ancient set of girlie mags you’ve ever seen.  Shit, I’d hate to see what those women’ tits and beavers looked like today!  Hell, I don’t even remember what my pussy looked like with hair.  You could have knit a pair of socks with the muffs these girls were sporting.  It was really kind of gross and not in a good way.  So anyhow, now I became really curious because old Dinar took all his breaks back there and those adult publications sure looked like they were well thumbed through (if you get my meaning).

            Have you ever wished that you hadn’t seen something that you thought you wanted to see right before you actually saw it?  Well, count me among your number!  The day after my little dusting expedition, Dinnie excused himself for his traditional 15 minute break.  I stood behind the cash register for an eternity, praying that someone didn’t come hobbling through the door. When enough time had passed, I tip-toed into the back room as quiet as a Ninja.  Dinar’s little cubbyhole was right at the back.  I’d moved a couple of boxes earlier in the day so I could peek through one of the shelves and into his inner sanctum.  And boy, did I get an eye full!  Old Dinnie (and I do mean old) had one of his “art mags” in one hand and his pint-sized wiener in the other and he was fapping away to beat the band.  There’s probable nothing more unflattering for an ageing fat guy than to be seen with a fistful of dick and his pants around his ankles.  I think that horrifying image may stay with me for the rest of my life (like seeing your grandma take her bra off and scratch).  There was no way I was going to stick around for the gruesome finale.  I hightailed it back to the store and began the long and painful process of attempting to scrub it from my brain. 

            I’m ashamed to say that I blabbed the gory details to all of my friends.  Most of them dropped by to get a first hand (pardon the pun) view of the self-shagging shopkeep and have a giggle. 

            At least all that goofy activity was keeping my mind off how dreary and creepy working there was.  In fact, things were beginning to move along pretty well until one Thursday, when we were working late.  Dinnie was just about to close up when two really big guys came into the shop and they didn’t look like they were there to buy hemorrhoid cushions, if you catch my drift.

            “Why don’t you be a really good boy pops, and put all the money from that till into a bag for me,” the taller one grinned, pulling out a policeman’s nightstick. 

            I practically shit myself.  Well, at least if I had, I was in the right shop for it.

            “We don’t want any trouble sir,” replied Dinar and he pulled out a paper bag from under the counter.

            Things seemed to be going as well as could be expected under the circumstances until the shorter guy reached over and grabbed my tit.

            “Hey baby, you look like you need a good fucking.”

            I didn’t reply.  I just stood there very still and let him feel me up.

            “Please don’t do that,” Dinnie protested.

            “Shut the fuck up, old man.”  He reached under my skirt and grabbed my crotch.  I gasped.  “Why don’t we just take a trip into the back…”

            That was all he got out before Mr. Dinar brained him with an aluminum crutch.  “Don’t you dare!” he screamed.  “Run Becky!”

            The taller guy started to batter my poor boss with his truncheon while the shorter guy kicked him horribly.  I ran out into the street and screamed my head off.  A couple of seconds later, the two bastards charged out of the store and scurried off down the road.  When I went back in, I almost fainted.  There was blood everywhere.  I immediately called for an ambulance and then threw up.

            A week went by before Dinnie was allowed any visitors.  I was heartbroken and devastated.  All the things I’d put on Facebook about him and the stuff I’d told my friends and there he was lying in hospital with two broken arms, a fractured leg and God knows what else.  Here, I’d been telling everyone what an asshole he was and he’d attacked two armed-thugs to protect me.  Crippling guilt doesn’t even begin to describe how shitty I felt.  He even insisted on paying me my salary while the store was closed.  I wept for three solid days.

            Still, “You can’t go back and change the past, you can only forge ahead and change the future for the better.”  At least that’s what my father said, right after he poured my entire college fund down a “can’t lose” toilet.  And he was right.  I was determined to make full restitution for my callus behavior to that poor brave man.  Number one, I told everyone I knew that I made up that whole story about him whacking-off in the back of the store.  Number two, I closed my Facebook account (the wisest thing I have ever done).  Number three wasn’t nearly as easy as one and two but personal honor demanded nothing less.

            On the very first day he was allowed visitors, I was there first thing with his favorite weird foreign candy and a bottle of that really whiffy aftershave he likes.  Walking into the hospital room was totally traumatizing.  Mr. Dinar had both arms in casts hanging from this sort of medical scaffolding they’d erected.  His left leg was also heavily bandaged and his face looked like it’d been mistaken for a Whack-a-Mole game.  I took a deep breath, put on my best smile and walked cheerily to his bedside.

            “Hello, sir!”

            He smiled weakly.  We had a couple of minutes of empty conversation where he thanked me for the candy etc. before I summoned up the courage to say my piece.

            “Mr. Dinar sir, I know all about what you do in the backroom during your breaks.”

            He went even whiter than he already was.  I jumped right in with my next sentence before he started to panic.

            “And please don’t feel that you should be ashamed or imagine that I think any less of you.  Heck, I masturbate twenty times a day sometimes.  It’s a necessary and important part of life.”

            He seemed to relax a tiny bit but I could see he was mortified by this revelation.

            “Words cannot express sir, the gratitude and admiration I have for you and your crazy act of bravery.  You literally risked your life to save my honor and that’s a debt I can never repay.”

            “Take it from an old fool like me, we all have our faults but all men are not animals.”

            “I know that sir.  Your selfless act of valor has really made me reconsider who I want to be as a human being.  So anyway, my point is this: I know how much you like to ‘relieve yourself’ (again he tensed) and that is going to be impossible for you to do for the next little while (I gazed at his suspended arms to put home my point).  I would consider it an honor sir, if you’d allow me to do it for you.”

            Mr. Dinar did not look like he thought this was a good idea.  Luckily, I had no intention waiting for his answer.  “I tell you what.  Why don’t you let me do it just this once and if it’s not to your liking, it’ll never happened.”  I slowly slid the bed sheets off his pendulous stomach. “But if I do a good job, I hope you’ll invite me back tomorrow to do it again.”

            That poor old man looked sooo unhappy as I pulled the blanket down to his knees and lifted up his hospital gown to reveal the shy, shrunken manhood lurking beneath.  Being 18, I had only ever come in contact with young, pink and brash cocks that were more than willing to make my acquaintance.  Mr. Dinar’s geriatric wiener was anything but. It was shriveled and gray looked very unsure of itself.

            I had worn my bright red tube top for a very specific reason. “I know that you like to look at pictures of boobies,” I smiled at him, exposing my terrific pair of pert chest melons for his visual delectation. “I hope that you will find mine a satisfactory substitute.”

            By the look in his swollen bloodshot eyes, I feel fairly certain that they did. There was a small snag in my plan, however. Even after I’d practically waived my uncovered C-cup cuties under his nose, his winky still showed no signs of life.  This was a new and startling experience for me. I took his nutsack gently into my left hand and began to caress his individual balls. The long gray pubic hair was a bit icky but when a girl commits to a noble mission she does not let a little barf-worthy grossness dissuade her from her task. I kneaded and tickled his gonads for some considerable time before I realized that nerves and age were conspiring against me.  Even several dozen soft and sensual strokes of his floppity penis failed to bear the desired result. It became abundantly clear that more drastic steps would need to be taken. Not wanting to embarrass the subject of my amorous manipulations for his failure to inflate in the appropriate manner, I decided to employ the nuclear option. After pulling my hair back and saying a little prayer, I swooped down onto my flaccid prey, open mouthed and hoping for the best. I felt the underside of his belly against my cheek just as my lips wrapped themselves around his wrinkly softness. I marveled at how small a man’s cock was in its original state as I flipped it back and forth across my tongue. Soon the warmth and wetness, not to mention my awesome oral gifts, were distending his dormant Dinky. I sucked and caressed in equal measure and much joy sprang forth because of it. Although severely restricted by various medical apparatus, his battered and bruised pelvis began to move to the ebb and flow of my mystical fellatiatic rhythms. Small Eastern European grunts and sighs began to escape from his corpulent being as I took all of his penis and a majority of his gonads into my mouth. Hoping for a quick and pleasurable result, I also teased his scrotum with my index finger, edging ever-closer to his asshole with each exquisitely delicate stroke. The pace of his breathing picked up until he started to wheeze. If his hands had been free of their constraints I’m sure he would’ve grabbed the back of my head and driven my face deep into his groin. I was beginning to fear that his gyrations of ecstasy were going to cause him further injury when Mr. Dinar let out a sharp guttural moan and deposited a small dollop of sperm onto my tongue. Even his spunk had a weird Eastern European flavor to it but I guess that was to be expected. I looked up at him, opened wide to display his discharge, and proceeded swallow the lot.  Then I splashed back down onto Dinnie’s man cannon and gave it a thorough and loving post-orgasm saliva bath.

            It appears that my efforts were not in vain because I had barely returned his gown to its proper position before he invited me to come back visit as many times as I wished.

            So for the next week, I dropped by his hospital room twice a day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, to coincide with his traditional wank breaks. Eventually, gobbling his knob became second nature to me despite the obvious disagreeable aspects of the exercise. And yes, a nurse did walk in on us once mid-blowjob. I turned to the shocked Filipino woman and pleaded, “Could you just give me a couple of minutes, I need to finish sucking my boss’s cock?”

            She kindly waited behind me until I had extracted and swallowed every last drop of Mr. Dinar’s strange tasting semen. As I was pulling my top back up, I asked the nice lady if she had ever similarly serviced a patient. She smiled and made no attempt to deny it.

            “Your boss is doing very well with his recovery,” she offered, while taking his temperature.

            “That’s great,” I replied, gently stroking his balding pate. “Because when he gets out of here, I’m going to let him fuck me.”

            Now that news brought a healthy rosy glow to his cheeks!

            Mr. Dinar remained in hospital for another three weeks and I faithfully appeared twice a day to administer my oral services. Nanette, his nurse, would wait patiently for me to finish my Dinky delighting duties before taking his temperature and performing all that other nursey shit. I even convinced her to give his balls a little lick one afternoon. She giggled like a schoolgirl as she played with his nutsack on her tongue.  In return I agreed to give a blowjob to another one of her patients. He was this really sweet man who’d been hit by a car while trying to rescue a dog. Heck, I went back the next day and gave him another one. In fact, I was providing so much aid and comfort at that hospital I should’ve qualified for a candy striper outfit… or at least a bib.

            When Mr. Dinar was finally released, he politely requested a rain check on our employer/employee coital connection. Dinnie said he wanted to have his casts removed first so he could grab hold of my naked ass as he plunged his fiery cock deep into my young, tight vagina (there was no way that thingy of his was going to attain very much depth inside me but I liked his attitude). As a consolation prize, I let him eat me out a few times which was kind of pleasant but I did get a small rash from his mustache.

            So, I guess I’ve got a good old-fashioned boss boning waiting for me when I finish my semester.

            In the meantime, I’m really enjoying my freshman year of college, made possible by a scholarship graciously provided by Mr. Dinar. For my summer job next year, I’m hoping my new duties are mostly restricted to fucking and sucking him in the back room of the store. It sure beats the hell out of selling colostomy bags!

The End

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