Broken Carts ✔️

Aisle 8: Inundation

Everything got a little more fuzzy and a lot less cold. "Wh– I– uh–"

"I'll take that as a 'no blowjob, please.'"

"Wait– no– you..." I stammered, unable to find the right words, sentiments, or anything solid at all in my shaky, shaky grip on consciousness.

He approached me, and I let him, until he was so close I could feel his warmth and smell the night's accumulation of booze and nicotine on his body. His eyes darted to my still-lit cigarette. "That's a safety hazard," he growled. "Get rid of it."

I tossed it in the water without a second thought. With a satisfied grin on his face, he put his hand on my chest and kept sliding it lower, lower, lower. As soon as he crossed into the Deep South, I gulped.

"What?" he asked. "Scared we'll get caught?"

"No questions," I gurgled while what remained of Mostly Straight Milo shrieked in agony behind my eyes.

He grabbed onto my belt and leaned in toward me, lips parting. Then he started laughing. "You know," he said, eyes slitted. "At first, I was semi-kidding." His hand slipped over my jeans, making its way to my hardening cock. I shuddered. "But now... I kind of think I made you too excited not to go through with it." The look on his face was so smug, so full of himself. I wanted to punch him, I wanted to kick him– but more than all that, I just wanted him to fucking blow me.

His fingers made quick work of my belt and zipper before he dropped to his knees and touched me over my underwear.

It's just a blowjob, Mostly Straight Milo kept saying as I tried to keep my composure. I've gotten tons of blowjobs. From girls, sure, but it's all purely physical, right? It doesn't matter who he is, it never mattered who the girls were, why should it be different if he's–

"Run your fingers through my hair," he pleaded, gently taking my wrist and guiding me to the top of his head. "Like you did when we were on the couch together."

Chills ran through my body. Blood rushed to all extremities. Okay, this might be a little different, I admitted.

I swear I saw him smirk seconds before he gave me the most methodically theatrical head I'd ever gotten in my life. I understand that's a weird set of adjectives to place in front of any sex act, "methodically theatrical," but I wouldn't say shit like that unless it was deserving of the title.

Through half-closed eyes, he examined my face, his mien dripping with a message that I couldn't decipher. With both hands still holding my underwear, he covered my shaft in tiny licks, then slowly sucked each spot he'd licked. The soft, wet noises of his mouth on my cock made me tighten my grip on his hair to maintain my balance.

Suddenly, he teased me with fast, repetitive flicks of his tongue, breaking every so often to lick down my entire shaft. His expression made it seem like he was begging for me on his knees, and his stare threatened to swallow me whole. His unshifting gaze heightened every sensation in my body.

When he noticed I was biting my bottom lip to keep quiet, he moved his focus to the tip of my cock. His tongue massaged the head with even, circular motions as he curled his hand around the base, stroking it loosely and leisurely, and used his other hand to fondle my balls.

Ezra was straight-up putting on a show for me, and he knew it, and he loved it. By the time he actually put my cock in his mouth, I was nearly showering him with drool. I wanted to blame it on something: the alcohol, the coke, the cigarettes, the public setting, the time of night, the breeze, anything except that the guy who was giving me the best head ever with his stupid, alcohol-tinted smile was my co-worker at Vita-Mart.