Work Text:
Shane puffed a slow, shaken breath.
He didn’t want to make this a habit. Hell, it didn’t make him feel better either, but call it boredom…maybe spite.
It was a mistake to open his eyes. The stupid Joja icon plastered on every surface smiled back at him from one of the JojaMart employee motivational posters that read: “Customer Smiles Begin with YOU!”
He shut his eyes again.
Imagine any place else. Be anywhere but wedged between stacks of blue plastic storage crates as he jerked his dick. He scowled; it wasn’t easy. He didn’t need to have his eyes open to feel boxed in by the cold, slate walls of his personal corporate hell.
They should just be glad he wasn’t drinking on the job.
Thunder cracked overhead. The onslaught of rain drowned out his drawstrings clacking together at the same rhythm he pumped his cock.
He breathed a curse under his breath.
This wasn’t for pleasure, he told himself. It was to relieve tension. To get rid of the throbbing pin jabbed between his brows from too many drinks and not enough sleep. But when the heat churned in his gut, he became too aware of his breath, too aware of where he was, what he was doing—
Too much thinking. Too much bad thinking about work, about other shit that didn’t matter and wouldn’t get him off.
What did he want, what did he want.
Hands.
Hands on his face. Eager hands that drew him towards open-mouth kisses so he could feel the heat of shared breath. He wanted the flex of thighs wrapped around his hips that he could dig his fingers into. Yoba, he missed the weight of a woman in his hands, just a cute thing he could bracket against the wall, feeding off pulse and skin like a man starved for touch.
He groaned. Damn near could hear the memory of clothes drop onto the concrete. How long has it been since he felt someone against his mouth? When there was no control, no fucking thoughts. Just animal instinct forcing him forward, thrust by thrust.
His body curled into itself. He braced his hand on the crates, spread his stance wider, pumping faster.
Anything to get his head out of Joja— he wanted their breath in his mouth, on his body, would give anything to be able to slam his dick forward and hear a moan in response.
Gears shifted. He imagined the woman on her knees, her mouth around his cock instead of his fist, her pretty eyes looking up at him, wet and smudged with mascara. He wanted that mouth. Wanted those eyes to stay on him no matter how he fucked her. The need curled like a sickness in his chest, desperate enough to make his fingers twitch. He wanted her hair caught in his fist.
He’d be good for them. He’d put a filter between his head and mouth, wouldn’t be mean. Hold his stupid tongue and instead say how fucking perfect they felt. He could be good. Real good.
Lashes fluttered close and he muttered a curse, hundreds of images of different ways he’d bend a woman over played behind his closed eyes. He’d take anything, as long as she was warm and wet: mouth, pussy– fuck, even a woman’s hand after she’d licked it and then touched him.
“Dammit.”
Touch.
Yeah, touch. That’s what he wanted. Familiar touch. Someone who knew he was too in his head. Someone who could shove him over the first hurdle. Make him want it. Because he wanted to want it. Wanted to need it.
He lurched into the crate and pressed his head to the hard plastic. His hips jerked in twitching thrusts, sought pressure and a body that was warm and tight.
Faster.
He stroked faster.
His mouth felt empty; he wanted to bite, needed flesh between his teeth— her thighs. Fuck, yes. Bite into her thighs, just a little mean before being nice. Then go back to her clit. Devour that pussy. Work for his meal. He needed her to cum for him. Needed to feel wet satisfaction down his throat.
Chase it.
Chase it.
He pressed his sleeve to his mouth, but he couldn’t shut himself up. A drawn-out groan dragged between his teeth.
His hips bucked into his fist. No control. Neurons sparked like popping candy, every thrust demanding more, another drop. But the woman in his fantasy wasn’t there. He didn’t imagine filling her cunt as he came. He wanted to. But, no, he was too aware of his breathing, too aware that it was his hand he was rutting into.
And when his body settled, he just…stood there, wedged between blue crates again.
Breathing.
The last of his cum dripped to the ground. As the pleasant fuzz of white noise drained from his bones, reality’s ugly face waited for him to come to his senses, and it sounded like the ticking of JojaMart’s over-sized clock.
He didn’t want to look at the time. Didn’t want to see the stupid Joja icon smiling at him.
Mechanically, he pulled a crumbled wad of tissue from his jacket pocket and wiped off the mess he made. Yes, he was prepared this time, he acknowledged it and hated it. This wasn’t spur of the moment, and somehow that made it dirtier.
He dropped the tissue, stuffed himself back into his pants, and stomped it into the sticky concrete.
And that was that.
Thunder crashed overhead, and the air felt cold on the sweat at the back of his neck.
…Maybe he’d wash down the rest of the high with a Joja Cola.
When Shane stepped out of the storage, no one could tell he looked any less miserable. But his cheeks were flushed, as if he were moving boxes. He didn’t look up when he grabbed the yellow mop bucket waiting outside the door. There was something pathetic about its squeaking wheel as he dragged it into the stockroom behind him.