Ups

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This is how it started.

Nick, Nicholas on his UPS nametag but he preferred the diminutive, had been delivering to my office since I started working there two years earlier. His Mediterranean good looks seemed enhanced by the standard brown uniform all UPS drivers wore. His dark hair shimmered under the fluorescent lights of the office; that same dark hair grew profusely on his powerful forearms, heightening the aura of masculinity about him. His smile could melt the coldest heart. I always brightened up when he came by my desk. At first, we would just nod hello.

One day, I had put up a huge computer printout depicting the Starship Enterprise from the 60's TV series. Primitive by today's graphics standards since it was done on a standard line printer, utilizing overprinting and differing alphanumeric characters to produce its effect, nevertheless it was an impressive sight, covering about 16 pages of computer paper once assembled. Nick stopped and commented on it. "Hey, that's really neat!" The next day, I had a printout of it ready for him as a surprise.

From that day on, we were sort of friends. Not friends in the sense of having deep conversations or anything, but buddies. He managed to arrange his schedule and I mine so we could take a break at about the same time daily for coffee, shooting the shit for 10 or 15 minutes.

One day, we were talking about current events, in particular, CAMP (California Against Marijuana Production) and the recent big crop they had confiscated. "Shit," I said. "The stuff is expensive enough as it is."

"You have some around?", he asked, looking surreptitiously about for anyone who might be listening.

"Oh, sure. I usually have it around. It's the only drug I use, and I like the results better than alcohol."

"You know, I haven't had a toke for, oh, maybe five years, certainly not since I got married." I was acutely aware of the ring; it was probably the third or fourth thing I noticed about him the first time I'd seen him. "I have to agree, it beats drinking."

"You wanna stop by my place some evening and share some?"

"Well, I dunno. That might be alright." He seemed to be thinking. Suddenly, he perked up. "Hey, my wife's got choir practice tomorrow night. How about then?"

"OK by me," I said. "Right after work?"

"That'd be perfect."

I gave him written directions to my place the next day. "I sometimes get delayed past normal quitting time if there are a lot of pickups or traffic's bad or something. OK?"

"OK. I didn't make any other plans for tonight," I said, giving him a quick wink. And with that, a brief, troubled, quizzical look clouded his face but quickly vanished with what I swore was a mental shrug that meant he'd considered it and decided it meant nothing.

When I got home, I laid out on the end table a Hustler magazine and covered it with a couple of Playboys. I also got out the pipe and lighter and sat those nearby. I sat near the window, watching the traffic on my street. About 15 minutes late, Nick's old Chevy pickup swung into a parking spot about two doors up from my place. He jumped out, still in his tidy uniform. When I greeted him at the door, I noticed that the armpits of his shirt was darkened by perspiration. Inviting him in, I motioned for him to take a seat and offered him a drink.

"Do you have any lemonade?", he asked. I did have the mix, so I whipped some up. While I was in the kitchen, he had picked up one of the Playboys. He took the glass from me and quickly gulped half of it down. "Ah, man, that's good," deep satisfaction sounding in his baritone. "I picked up quite a few packages right at the last minute and had to unload them all in sort of a hurry to get here." He took another quick gulp and sat the glass down. As I busied myself with the pipe, he resumed thumbing through the magazine, stopping at several of the pictures, and turning the magazine sideways to properly orient the centerfold.

I lit the pipe and took a deep draw off it. "Here you go," I said, handing the pipe to him.

"Thanks." He took a deep draw as well, and after holding it in for a few seconds, struggling to keep from coughing, he lost his battle. "Shit. I hate when I do that."

Laughing a bit at his line, I said, "Go ahead and take another hit."

He did so and succeeded in holding the smoke in for maximum effect. He handed the pipe back to me. While he slowly exhaled, he grabbed the next magazine and started through it. The pipe passed between us until it was smoked out, and I refilled it. "Feeling anything?", I asked.

"Oh yeah. As a matter of fact, I'm getting real stoned. It must be because I haven't had any in so long." After about half the second pipe was gone, he refused any more, so I finished it off myself. I was fairly stoned by then, too. He picked up the Hustler, chuckling to himself as he thumbed through it, looking at the cartoons. "Shit, this magazine is sick, sick, sick." When he reached the centerfold, he let out a low whistle and turned it for me to see. "Nice, huh?" I nodded.

When he came upon the picture feature with the male and female couple, he studied them rather closely. All of the sudden he laid the magazine aside, and standing up, reached his hand down inside his trousers, adjusting himself. "Ow!" He fidgeted a couple of seconds. "There. That's better." As he finished his adjustments and sat back down, I got a brief glimpse of what made him uncomfortable. "Fucking pot always makes me horny."

He finished with the Hustler and, as he laid it down, he looked at me as if to ask, "What now?" I said, "I have more magazines if you'd be interested."

"OK by me. I wouldn't mind looking at a few more."

I went and grabbed about eight more magazines from a stash in the back of the house. As I laid them on the end table, I pulled over a chair so I could look at the same time. He grabbed an issue of Cheri off the top of the stack. I prepared another pipe full of grass. As he thumbed through the magazine, he stopped at several of the photo spreads, viewing them for himself. As we smoked, if he found a picture interesting, he held the magazine more at an angle for me to have a better look. I nodded, occasionally I'd make an approving grunt, but what really had my attention was his crotch. He quite clearly was aroused, and, to top it off, a small wet spot was forming on the dark brown fabric.

Turning the last page in the magazine, he laid it aside and reached for the Hustler laying on top of the pile. More of the same action followed, but when he reached the picture feature with the male and female couple, I stopped him. "Wow, this is a pretty hot scene, huh?"

He nodded. "Yeah, it sure is." He had been flipping the pages in reverse order, and when he went back one more page, there was a shot of the girl laying on her back. The man had his semi-hard prick pulled through the fly of his jeans, the head of it nearly brushing her lips. "Man," Nick sighed, "look at that. Lucky fella."

"You like blowjobs?"

"They're the greatest, man. And look at her! She really looks hungry for it, don't you think?"

"Ever thought you'd like to pose for pictures like that?," I asked. "You've got the body for it."

"You think so?"

"Well, I'd say the guy in the magazine there is probably more beefed up, but then he is getting paid to do these pictures, so he probably works out to look his best."

Nick bristled a little. "Hell! You call that muscles? Those gym bodies aren't anything special. A man who works with his body seems to attract women a lot faster than a Soloflex body."

"What makes you say that?"

"I hear it from women all the time. They see me around their offices, or when I'm out playing sports, and they all the time are trying to pick up on me."

"Do you ever make it with them?"

"Of course not!," Nick answered indigently. "I'm married."

"I know that," I responded soothingly. "I was just curious. Anyway, I'm not sure what you mean about the difference between work and gyms."

"I guess they think its more masculine and natural than a gym body."

"Like how? Can you show me?"

There was a barely perceptible time lag in our conversation before he said, "Yeah, I guess so." He sat the magazine aside and stood to face me. The stain on his uniform slacks had gotten larger, and the trousers tented out. He slowly undid each button, an almost sensual act, revealing a white t-shirt. The thick hair on his chest darkened the pure white cotton. As the shirt came off and he tossed it onto the chair, I caught the faint odor of a man who had been perspiring. Looking nowhere in particular, Nick pulled the t-shirt over his head and tossed it onto the chair with his shirt. He went into a sort of flexing routine. He indeed had a nice body. He didn't have the definition that a bodybuilder would have had, particularly over his abdominal area, but you could tell his arms and chest were powerful. The thick mat of hair virtually obscured the nipples on his pectorals, but it thinned to a line running down his stomach to disappear below the waist of his pants.

I started to speak and found my mouth was very dry. I quickly sipped some Diet Coke and said, "Yeah, I can see the difference all right." I paused, unsure whether to proceed, but not for long. "Does the same sort of thing happen with the legs?"

"Yep," he said. "I'd show you, but I've got a small problem so I'd better not."

"Aw, don't worry about that," I said, acknowledging that I knew what he was talking about. "The pot and those magazines will do it to anybody. I know. Its just us guys here, after all."

He continued to flex his biceps, but he seemed distracted. "What the hell," I heard him mutter then. His hand went for the belt and loosened it. He unzipped the fly, once again slowly and erotically, it seemed, but maybe I was lost in the fascination of it. He unhooked the fastener and slipped them down to his ankles. He started to flex his leg muscles then. "Can you see the difference?", he asked.

I nodded. "Uh huh." His legs were dark with the thick hair of Mediterranean men; his calves were tight, his thighs massive. But what fascinated me more than anything was the tight white Fruit of the Loom briefs that hugged his butt behind, and struggled to hold his raging hardon in the front. His cock was pointing to his left and upward, and the pink color of the head of it was clear because the fabric had a somewhat transparent effect from the oozing precum. His testicles nestled snugly in the pouch of his briefs. Nothing captures better the erotic essence of man than seeing him in a pair of briefs for me.

The air seemed thick; I seemed to be having trouble breathing. I couldn't take my eyes from his basket. A couple of minutes had passed. He spoke then, seemingly measuring his words, almost as if he himself wasn't sure what he was about to say. "Would you, uh, perhaps, like to, you know, see a bit more?" I could only nod.

Before he gave me the view I hungered for, he reached down and picked another magazine, a Club, off the pile, and stood thumbing through it. He stopped briefly at a couple of pictures. I saw his dick jerk often but irregularly. After he'd thumbed all the way through it, he went back to the centerfold and laid it out on the table so he could see it where he stood. It was of a buxom redhead sitting in a chaise lounge, her legs pulled up so that you could see her asshole, and her fingers spreading wide her pussy. Her tongue licked her lips as she looked off camera at whatever. I imagined he thought she was looking over at him and it made my heart pound to think what fantasies might be running through his mind.

Having arranged all this, he straightened up, looked quickly around the room as if he expected someone to be lurking in the corners, watching, then pushed his shorts down to his knees. As he straightened up, I was treated to a magnificent sight, one of which I never tire, a hard cock. His was a beauty. It was 6.5" of sturdy manhood. It had a slight upward curve from the base to the circumcised head. Beneath it were two large testicles, but they could not swing freely as his scrotum had obviously been crinkling up with the sexual tension. His cock jumped and jerked in the air. As I watched, a big drop of precum oozed from the slit and ran down the underside of the shaft onto his ballsack. Another gob followed it quickly, this time dripping towards the floor in a long, pearly string. Shuffling a little, he turned and bent forward at the waist, showing me his powerful buttocks. As he bent forward, the asscrack spread apart, and I could see his brownish pink hole amongst the kinky hairs. "Nice body, buddy," I complimented him.

Suddenly he straightened up, turned, and reached for his shorts, pulling them up over his genitals. "Sorry, man," he said. "I don't know what came over me. Fucking pot I guess."

Before he could do anything more, I reached for his bulging briefs and touched him. "I could help you with that, you know."

For a moment, as I caressed him through the cotton, I sensed his weakened resolve, a moment of evaluation of what I was offering. But he tensed again. "Hey, I don't think so. I'm married, remember?" Still, he made no move to stop me.

"I remember," I said, half to myself. Nick was standing; I was still sitting, and I was mesmerized by the vision in front of me. Everything else was shut out but the sight of a fine male body in these white cotton briefs, bulging obscenely, wet with his excitement. The warmth from his balls against my palm was like fire. The moment seemed timeless. I don't know, maybe two or three minutes passed and I quickly glanced up. Nick had his eyes closed. His face seemed contorted with a weird mix of passion and guilt.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to get closer. I brought my face forward and inhaled. The damp cotton still bore the perfume of the detergent his wife had laundered with, the slightly heady aroma of male perspiration mingled with it. I had to get closer. I leaned towards him, and my forehead brushed the hard shaft. The heat there went straight to my brain. I pressed against it. I felt it stiffen, pressing back, hold for a second, and relax, as much as any stiff cock can. It twitched again.

I reached for the waistband. Nick jumped back slightly. "No way, man. Don't go any further."

"All right," I said. My right hand was once again caressing him, though. He seemed willing to let me go this far. Once again, I pressed into him with my face. I hungered so much for a taste of his flesh; I trembled with desire for him. My left hand wandered up his stomach, the crinkly hair tickling my palm, and it came to rest on his left pectoral muscle. I squeezed it slightly. I felt his erect nipple against my palm, and I located it with my fingertips, tweaking it and rubbing it.

"Oh, man, that feels nice." I wasn't sure what Nick was referring to, the tit play or my face in his crotch, but then I decided it was probably both. My other hand traveled upwards, too. Again, Nick stepped back, but not so suddenly this time. "Larry? OK if I sit down?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Make yourself comfortable."

As he plopped into the chair, he said, "That's kinda hard under the circumstances," and he briefly flashed me that brilliant smile. As soon as he was settled, he grabbed another magazine, an issue of "Gent". I slipped to my knees and again started to make love to him. My hands rested lightly on his chest, fingertips flicking lightly across the upright nipples. As I nuzzled his nuts, he scooted his hips more forward, and I sniffed around his crotch below his tight sack. Pushing my face forward, I rubbed up over his balls and slowly up the shaft, my face getting wet with the precum he oozed so profusely. He squirmed as I repeated the motion time and time again. He went through two more magazines. He had begun to breath heavily through his mouth, and small groans and moans gave evidence that he was turned on. Without a word, he was urging me on.

He sat the current magazine aside and grabbed an older, beat up copy of "D-Cup". I shortened my strokes a bit, occasionally passing over his balls, but concentrating on the upper parts of his dickshaft. "Oh, yeee-ahhh", he moaned. I mewled lowly. "You're hungry for it, ain't ya?" he chided. "Well, sorry, cocksucker. It's spoken for, but you sure treat it real nice. Real nice." I glanced up, and saw him looking back at me from under the magazine he held. He was watching me at work, servicing him. He gave a brief nod of approval and looked back up at the porn.

After a moment, he laid the magazine aside. It was open to a three-page centerfold, spread out. An older blonde who had huge breasts was pictured, her eyes closed, lips parted--both sets. Her pussy lips were shaved. One hand squeezed a milky drop from her ample teat. The other hand pulled open her asscrack, showing off the tight pink hole. I felt Nick put his hands on either side of my head, holding me in place as he gyrated his hips seductively, lewdly, sliding his rockhard dick across my face slowly and deliberately. It had become even more rigid and swollen, thicker, within the last minute or so. My lips parted hungrily and I could taste his secretions, mansweet.

A low groan formed in his throat and rose in quick crescendo to a lion's roar. Quite suddenly, he arched his back, lifting his hips up off the seat. Holding my head firmly to the flyfront of his briefs, his steely penis spasmed and jerked repeatedly, and my nostrils flared with the musky smell from the copious bolts of semen it shot out into his briefs. When at last his orgasm subsided, he relaxed a bit, settling back into his seat, hugging my head to his crotch, my cheek resting in the pool of cum soaking the cotton. His breathing slowly returned to normal, and in a couple of minutes he pushed me away.

"Look at the mess you made!", he scolded me. He lifted his waistband and looked. "Jesus. And just how am I going to explain this to my wife?" As he spoke, he scooped up some of the spunk pooling in his pubic hair with two fingers and splattered my face with it. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?" I nodded and, cat-like, washed off my face with hand and tongue.

"Now get me a towel and washcloth so I can clean this shit up." I stood to do as he asked. He followed me back to the bathroom, his UPS-brown trousers pulled up but open. Closing the door behind him, I left him to his toilet.

When he came out, he looked pretty normal. Even acting as if everything were perfectly normal, he said, "Well, we'll see you at the office, huh?"

"OK, Nick. Thanks."

"Yeah, well...." And out he went.

This is how it always ends. But I keep hoping that maybe someday he won't stop me when I try to pull his underwear down.

(Copyright 1991 by Larry Johnson)