Blackout-Elevator
Courtesy of www.99Gay-Men.US
Blackout Elevator
by Greg Scott
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All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc. In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it. Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.
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Lunch time at this office was like recess at a primary school.
The geeks who were eating lunch at their desks, opened their bags or headed to the microwave to nuke their instant meals. Everyone else headed to the elevator at the top of the hour to get to the places on the first floor, twenty-three floors below, to get in line at their favorite cheap place, fast food restaurants or to the coffee shop that had options that were a bit more healthy and, more importantly, had actual natural flavor.
The top floor had a restaurant that seemed to attract the executives with their expense accounts. None of us in the regular ranks ever pushed the buttons for floor 43. Maybe on a Saturday night, when we were with that special someone, the 43rd floor might be a destination worthy of consideration, but during lunch the first floor with its frantic consumers was the place to be as soon as possible.
After seeing the delivery boy who had made his offering to the accounting department--probably with little to show in terms of a tip--who ordered pizza almost every day, I made an effort to get onto elevator number 6.
At only 160 pounds, I was a bit startled to hear the overweight alarm go off in the elevator as soon as I got on, but a porky guy from I.T. got off, and we were ready to go.
The pizza boy was directly behind me, and I felt a surge of adrenalin as I realized our proximity. I had been trying to get into that position on the elevator ever since the young stud had taken over the delivery route to our floor a couple weeks before. He was my type, if there is such a thing. Well, actually there is exactly that sort of thing as my type--roughly half of my forty years, slender, exuding confidence while simultaneously showing a vulnerability that most wouldn't even notice. Angular facial features, long fingers, a protruding Adam's apple or other indications of a long member merely added to the already strong appeal. Perhaps the attraction of those characteristics was only due to my realization that I was the complete opposite--except for the length of my own member, I guess, although most guys commented on the girth rather than its well above average overall length.
I'm sure that every time he has passed my cubicle, he stared at my desk as he passed on the way to the accounting area, which was located in a different room. In fact, I had a feeling that he was staring below my desk. But really, who knows what delivery boys stare at as they try to balance boxes of pizza, subs and hot wings plus the rare salad.
What I stared at I tried to make obvious. As he would make his way past my desk, I looked first at his intriguing, although far from beautiful face. When he proceeded, I moved my entire head lower. Of course, a slight transition of my eyes would have left me looking in the same area, but I wanted the impact of my changing focus to be apparent to him. For me, there is nothing worse than sending out signals that can be misinterpreted or just plain missed. I don't want to send a seductive glance as much as a declaration of lust--an invitation that says, "R.S.V.P--A.S.A.P."
See if you can follow along with this statement: I wanted him to know that I wanted him to know that I wanted him. No chances should be taken that your target knows he is your target but that you may not yet know it on a conscious level. I do not ever want to be confused with a latent homosexual. There is nothing latent about me. When I want a guy, I want him to know that I want him and that I am completely accepting of my desire.
Pretending is for children. None of this for me, thanks: "Oh, was I staring there? Oh, I'm so sorry. My mind was wandering, and I had no idea where my eyes were. I hope it didn't make you uncomfortable." I went through that phase at about 13 until I discovered you get faster results by making your lust clear. Sure it backfires sometimes, but more often the successes more than balance out the failures. Men are always in one of three states of existence--1) horny, 2) asleep and even hornier, 3) sexually satisfied briefly when they either want to sleep or talk about sports. Fortunately the third stage is very brief, unless there is an important game to be played within the next half hour.
I moved back from the closing elevator doors as I had imagined that I would, and thrilled to be making contact--not so much with the hot young man behind me as with his loose fitting clothing bumping against my cheap suit, bought off the rack at a mid-level department store. Even though it was only clothes to clothes contact, I felt a surge within me--more like a shiver than a surge. But I had hungered for any sort of contact, and cloth to cloth was better than nothing at all. I simply wanted to send some physical signal to him, and maybe this would do it.
We traveled just a few floors before we came to a stop, the doors again opened, but the awaiting throng wisely decided to wait for another elevator rather than trying to cram onto the one that so many of us already occupied. In fact the elevators in our building had a rather poor reputation, even though they continued to get the city stickers indicating that they had passed inspection.
Anyone who used them, which included all of us on floor 23, knew of their reputation for lengthy delays. One co-worker had reportedly spent a bit over an hour on one of the elevators by himself. He was stranded just four floors from the bottom. He used his cell phone, called his wife and asked her to place the phone next to the television tuned to the PBS evening News Hour. Shortly after the program's sign off, the repair company managed to get the lift to its destination on the ground floor. He later claimed that he had enjoyed the uninterrupted time to listen to the News Hour. Most similar problems took less than ten minutes to correct, which perhaps explained why it seemed to be such a low priority in building maintenance--at least that was what the building managers told us.
In any case, when we stopped on the nineteenth floor if only to tease the awaitng group, I stepped back further into the crammed elevator--a noble show of courtesy, even though I knew its only real impact would be to put me into more direct proximity and partial actual contact with the long haired, very slightly pimpled guy behind me on whom I could still smell a slight aroma of pepperoni and garlic. Nobody from floor 19 showed any desire to step into the tiny space that I had created.
The increase in the stimulation of my sense of smell made me hungry for either the egg salad sandwich which awaited me on the building's first floor or the sausage that I could actually now feel growing steadily within the jeans of the young man standing behind me. Since I was confident that he was awake, I figured he must be in stage 1 of the male condition. At this point I was confident that that stage encompassed my situation. I was definitely horny. In fact, I was growing hornier by the moment--growing so in a sense that was both figurative and literal.
There are no surprises in this story. By this point, the lights indicating our position had reached floor 12, and it was just beyond that point when the movement of the elevator stopped, the lights went out and the first sound of the passengers' panics began.
"What's wrong?" said a voice near the back.
"It's nothing; it happens all the time," said a voice near hers.
"I don't like this," said another back corner, sounding under control and quite reasonable.
I might have agreed openly with the speakers if I had not felt a firm push of the guy behind me into my suit pants, allowing me to register his sizeable erection through several layers of fabric pushing against the crack in my buttocks, which somehow reminded me that the elevators in this building frequently had such mechanical hiccups
After several more pushes against me from the pizza boy taking his liberties with my rear, the guy next to me said with surprising calm, "I get claustrophobic in circumstances like this."
"Don't worry about it; it happens all the time," I said to my neighbor, trying to sound relaxed, although I was becoming excited in an entirely different way. "These elevators do this all the time. It doesn't take long for them to get going again."
In the meantime, it took no time for my long-haired, pimpled teenager behind me to get going despite (or probably because of) the elevator interruption. He continued to pump against my ass with greater enthusiasm and with ever increasing size, which I could feel through my pants and his.
The wallet in my right rear pocket interfered with the level of my pleasure, so I reached back to retrieve it to move it to the interior pocket of my suit jacket. In doing so, I contacted the stiff rod encompassed within his jeans.
His moan was clearly audible to me, but I doubt that any of the panicked passengers noticed any sound above their audible concerns about the status of the elevator, which should not have been any concern given the history of these machines. After all, much as every person in Italy from high school student to transit worker, they loved to go on strike, but they always eventually went back to work without any real harm to anyone.
I rubbed his inflated rod several strokes before I retrieved my wallet to move it to the breast pocket of my suit coat. In the meantime, he pressed more firmly into my ass.
Then he reached into the dark to find my zipper, which he lowered slowly so as to make no noise. His hand plunged into my boxers and retrieved my hard boner, pulling it into the fresh dark air. He began to stroke it with an unimaginable ferocity as he assaulted me from behind with the same force.
"I don't think I can take this anymore," said the claustrophobic next to me.
"I know how you feel," I said, although I was focused upon entirely different feelings.
The lad behind me released his demanding hold on my cock and spun me around so that I was facing him, although in the complete darkness I had no visual confirmation of what I knew to be our physical proximity.
I must admit the disappointment that I felt when he released his two-handed grasp of my anxious cock. The emotion was short lived once he grabbed the back of my head and pulled me into the most perfect kiss I had ever felt. Shortly thereafter, I felt his bare dick pushing demandingly against mine.
I dropped both my hands to get a better feel of what he was offering. I found that his ample balls were equally accessible, but I was fascinated by the long, slender and apparently uncut penis that continued to thrust against mine.
"I'm starting to panic," said the pleading voice next to me. "I don't think I can breathe."
"It's all good," said I, hoping to communicate with my neighbor and my lusty target simultaneously.
"Are you sure?" asked the claustrophobe.
"It will end very soon," I reiterated, now feeling the delivery guy's wet hands grasp both of our erections, pushing them together with considerable force as we rocked against each other.
I felt his narrow penis grow in width as we approached the culmination of our encounter. I know he must have felt something similar, before the familiar warmth of a partner's ejaculate shot over the other's cock with quiet splats.
"I'm scared," said my nervous companion to my side.
"It's going to be okay," I somehow managed to say at the moment that my seed was splattering my sexual partner. "It will be over soon."
My neighbor grasped my hand in thanks for my reassurance at the exact moment that my climax ended and the pizza boy leaned in for one final kiss of culmination.
This was as close to my best fantasy as it might have been, except that at that exact moment the lights came back on and the elevator started its movement within a couple seconds afterward.
In a panic, I looked down to see two very different penises staring back at me. Those could be put away quickly enough--and they were almost instantly. The bigger problems seemed to be the coating of white goop on the delivery guy's jeans and my suit pants.
I turned quickly toward the door, wiped the bulk of the sticky substance off my pants and surreptitiously brought it to my mouth for efficient disposal before we arrived at the ground floor. Glancing at my pants, I realized that I had some telltale signs that remained on my trousers.
I figured, what the fuck, it pays to advertise.
I enjoyed a typical lunch in the coffee shop, although the egg salad sandwich had a somewhat more intriguing taste that day.
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