Taking Stock
I’m 38, but people tell me I look younger. Maybe it’s the shock of blonde hair that I wear in a cut that looks a little like a surfer dude. Maybe it’s my attitude. I never take things too seriously, and I guess I just don’t feel my age. My job as assistant store manager at a big chain department store includes supervising a staff of young guys that move the stock around, and generally keep the store filled-in and shoppable. They usually come from a world that is very different than mine. Urban, street savvy, and carefree. Lots of testosterone. Sometimes hard to direct, because they can always get another entry-level job, so why should they worry about getting fired?
To fill an opening, I interviewed several guys and decided on one candidate that didn’t quite fit the regular profile. In his mid twenties, Franco was a little older than the teens I was used to working with. He had dark, wavy hair that he wore slicked back, that cascaded on his neck in black, shiny ringlets. About 5’ 11”, clean shaven, but with a faint blue shadow. His eyes were brown, almost black, and slanted down slightly on the outsides. The shape of his beautiful eyes made him look a little sleepy, just about to nod off. I could just see the edge of a tattoo under his right shirt sleeve. The curly hair that peeked out over the edge of his “wife-beater” undershirt helped to define his broad, muscular chest. I couldn’t help imagining the trail of hair continuing down, ending in lush, dark, soft rings around what must be a substantial cock, based on his pronounced features. You know what they say about big noses...
He was anxious to start, although he did warn me that he was waiting to hear from the Police Department, that he had applied and tested to enter the academy next month. I decided immediately that I wanted the opportunity to watch this guy sweat and flex his body as he unloaded my trucks, even if only for a month.
Franco had a lot of stamina. he worked many hours, and other than showing up with an occasional hangover, he proved to be a great stock associate. I watched him. His pale skin glistened as he lifted the boxes onto the pallets. The damp spots that formed under his armpits and down the small of his back were enticing. I often stood near to him, to smell the scent of this man. But what I really wanted is to be under this man, and feel his hot arms pushing my legs behind my head!
Franco showed up one day with a set of gashes on his cheek. I asked him . . . . .
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