Cum and Grow

by BRK   

When someone goofed up the sign at the Come and Go store to make it say “Cum and Grow”, I thought it was a pretty funny prank. Turns out, it wasn’t just a joke.

Out where highway 40 meets the interstate, between the Motel 6 and the Dairy Queen, there’s this little 24-hour gas station/convenience store called the Come and Go. I head up there sometimes partly on account of they for some reason have my mom’s RC Cola real cheap by the case, which is a godsend ‘cause she’s fucking addicted to the stuff. To me it tastes like battery acid, but then she’s always on me about how my Dr. Brown’s black cherry is basically carbonated Robitussin, so, love what you love, I guess.

The other reason I go up there—it’s a little out of the way, actually, me living three towns over and everything—is that they have this weird knack for hiring these dead butch, sexy son-of-a-lumberjack counter guys that make me instantly hard. And I mean that, literally. Every time, no joke. And it’s all of them, somehow—it’s not just a couple of stunners, but the whole crew. I’ve been out there all hours, and anytime I go there’s at least one behind the counter, waiting to give me a big smile and a stiff dick I gotta carry around the whole rest of the night.

They’re all different in the obvious ways, of course—hair color, skin color, eye color, that kind of thing—but somehow every one of them has this wild, animal magnetism just radiating off them, and these bright eyes that see right into you, and a constant layer of perma-stubble you just want to nuzzle your cheek against. They’re not big, exactly, like you’d picture an actual fantasy lumberjack; what they are is really tight and compact and strong as fuck, like their muscles are pressed in real hard against their bodies under their skin and are, like, twice as dense as yours or mine. In my case that’s saying something, ‘cause I’ve been lifting since middle school and I kinda look it. These guys, you feel it, is what I’m saying.

I’ll grant you the automatic hard-on thing might be a conditioned response. At least that’s what my brother says about his insta-boner, and he studies this stuff. I’m just a car mechanic, fresh out of trade school, with a hard bod and, especially when I’m up there, an equally hard dick. But then the other stuff started up, and I guarantee you that part isn’t all in my head.

A couple months back a local vandal took some paint and, some time when no one was looking, very carefully doctored the main sign facing the highway so that, instead of spelling out “Come and Go” in bright red, spaced-out letters on white, it now read “Cum and Grow”—and this was no five-second, graffiti-punk-with-a-can-of-Krylon job, either. This was somebody with a brush and an eye and couple cans of white and red paint and a bit of time on their hands. I was kind of impressed, ‘cause it almost looked like the store had actually rebranded or something—even the way the “r” was squeezed in kinda narrow between the “G” and the “o”, with the curve going over the “o” a little, totally looked like it was deliberate and completely part of the new look. That first day I noticed it it was the late in the afternoon, and unlike the Motel 6 next door (which had scrubbed away the “9” the mysterious vandal had added a month or two previous almost before anyone had seen it) and the DQ on the other side (which stripped off the paint over the “n” that made it look like an “r” that time faster than you can say “Oreo Blizzard”) no one seemed like they were in any kind of hurry to return the “Cum and Grow” sign to its previously undefiled state.

I parked, and, chuckling over the sign, I went into the store, and… right away I had this weird shiver up my spine, like something was different. I wasn’t sure what, not right away. And then—but let me tell you about the last time I went up there, ‘cause it’s only gotten more intense.

Mac was behind the counter. He’s the ginger with the rust-colored two-day beard all the time, and I kinda call him Rusty in my head—totally original, I know, but I really love his dark, fire-brick red hair, especially the brush of short curls you can glimpse poking out of his collar. He’s packed with tight muscle like the rest of them, and the store uniform—a snug black polo over an even more body-hugging red long-sleeve tee and form-fitting black trousers—did nothing to hide it. But what stands out most about Mac is those clear, hazel eyes that you want to stare into, and those lips you just want to taste.

I walked into the well-chilled store, leaving a wall of summer heat behind. The bell over the door jangled and Mac looked up from this tourist couple he was ringing up (Pepsis and big bags of pretzel-roll snacks). He saw me and smiled this big, genuine, pulse-quickening smile right at me, and bam! I was hard as a fucking rock.

Well, I still get a little embarrassed at boning up publicly even at the C&G where I know it’s going to happen, so I swerved directly into the potato chips aisle and when I got halfway down it I hastily adjusted myself so my aching erection was bent flat against my hip and not all twisted up in my shorts. I tried pulling my tee shirt down over it to hide it, too, but the Shazam tee I was wearing was feeling a little small that day and was barely falling an inch past the waistband of my jeans.

So I just, you know, got on with it. I kept walking, taking the long way around to the drink machines, which was where I was eventually headed. I could kind of feel Mac’s eyes on me periodically as I moved slowly through the store, like he was anticipating the moment I made it back to the counter and we were face to face almost as much as I was. That thought alone was enough to make my dick flex in my new butt-hugger jeans in a way that would’ve been real obvious if anyone was looking.

Even as I was thinking that I glanced up and saw the little surveillance cam bubble in the corner over the cold pop cases, and I was like, Do they ever check the CCTV for guys like me who bone up when they’re in here? I gave the cam a sheepish smile and then turned into the next aisle as quick as I could.

Like a lot of convenience stores the Cum and Grow—sorry, Come and Go—has a signature fountain drink; theirs is called the Big C&G. Basically it’s a soda machine that simultaneously dispenses thick vanilla soft-serve and either Coke or root beer side-by-side to make this really yummy float. I know, it’s a float, no big deal, but the machine is set up to dispense the two ingredients in exactly the right proportions, and it’s really good-quality soft-serve, like, you can actually taste the vanilla bean. If I bought a Big C&G as often as I was craving one, I definitely wouldn’t have the 33-inch waist I have now. Today, though, the barriers were down and self-restraint was home with the flu.

A moment later I was making for the counter, me, my hard-on, and Super-Big A&W C&G, the cream of the soft-serve curling around in the dark pop through the clear 30-ounce cup like little black and white weather systems. The tourist couple was gone, and there was no one else in the store, either. I had Mac all to myself.

I plunked my calorie-laden drink down on the counter between us and looked him right in the eyes. “Hey,” I said.

He gave me that killer smile again, and my heart kind of tripped over itself. “Hey,” he said, staring up at me. His voice was deep and rich and probably enough to get me hard all by itself without the rest of his uncanny hotness. I could actually feel how turned on he was, too, like it was heat wafting over me, making my arm hairs stand on end. My dick pulsed eagerly against my hip, bucking at its constraints, and my blood ran hot. It was a rule I’d discovered early on: the closer I was to one of the C&G guys, the closer I was to a hot, explosive orgasm.

The ginger hunk licked his lips, the tip of his long tongue brushing tantalizingly against his dark red stubble. “How did you want to pay for that?” he asked quietly. He didn’t wait for an answer, though. He knew how I wanted to pay.

Reaching up, Mac slid his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me down into a deep, immersive kiss that instantly had me building to a colossal release. My eyes fluttered closed and I let all of the powerful sensations just flood through me. Imminent climax sizzled up my spine as my dick tried to get even harder in my jeans, and the only thing them kept me from moaning pathetically into the kiss was the wonderful, tiny whimper Mac made in the back of his throat. His strong fingers were caressing my nape, and his other hand was cupping my thick, tanned biceps below the hem of my Shazam tee, but for me it was like he was doing something to every inch me, like I was about to cum with my entire fucking body, and so was he.

I couldn’t hold back anymore. My hands tightened into fists and my body got even hotter and I started blasting my load—and with a little grunt that seemed to wrap around our dancing tongues and mashing lips Mac was cumming too.

Now, here’s the thing that really surprised me the first time, even more than the counter guy kissing me out of nowhere. (It was Ralph that day, the pale, square-jawed, incredibly handsome blond who looks like a Marine Corps recruiter’s wet dream.) That had actually seemed weirdly normal, maybe because we were both crazy hard and staring hard at each other, and I’d already half forgotten why I was there and the case of RC on the counter between us. In that moment, with that guy behind the counter, paying with a deep, searing, literally orgasmic kiss seemed as routine as him stamping my loyalty card toward a free fill-up.

No, the truly astonishing part came when we started cumming. I got this flicker of a rational thought in the back of my pleasure-addled head—”Fuck, my pants!”—but before it could take shape, that or the nascent guilty twinge over his pants, I realized that my cum wasn’t shooting into my shorts at all. Instead it was blasting right into our mouths as we kissed—and from the taste of it (yes, I know what my cum tastes like, shut up), his was too! Somehow, our shared orgasm, fully clothed at the C&G right there next to the Slim-Jims and the chocolate-chip cookie case, was totally not making messy, sticky lakes out of both our crotches, because the cum shooting out of our dicks was in our mouths instead.

That’s what happened every time, and every time we kept kissing as best we could, gasping and swallowing, and both of us kept cumming. Mac always seemed especially hungry for our mingled spunk, and this time as our climaxes tailed off he sent his long tongue probing deep in my mouth, eagerly searching for more. Finally we had to separate, both of us panting hard. We pressed our foreheads together for a long moment, then I straightened up and grinned a slightly cummy grin down at him, which he eagerly reciprocated. He wiped the corner of his lip with his thumb and winked at me. “Thanks for cumming,” he said, still with a cheeky grin.

“My pleasure,” I answered. I didn’t check myself out yet, though I could feel the cool air of the store on my previously jeans-covered, sockless ankles and along a half-inch or so of bare skin between the bottom hem of my Shazam tee and my jeans waistband; not to mention my trouble-making, still-hard dick felt as though it was now big enough to try nosing out of my jeans even laying along my hip as it was. I could take stock of all of that later. Right now I was just enjoying this goofy mutual grin session we were having. It wasn’t long, though, before I realized there was someone behind me waiting to check out, and probably five seconds away from pointedly clearing his throat at me, too. I picked up my drink and, suddenly bashful again, I gave Mac a quick little wave and ducked out of the store and back into the summer heat, letting the hard-bodied redhead return to serving the rest of his mundane customers, almost all of them still completely and eternally ignorant of all the special services their local “Cum and Grow” had to offer.

I sat in my pickup (blessedly air-conditioned) and drank my A&W C&G thoughtfully, trying to decide whether I should head over to Walmart now and get new jeans (again) and maybe some of those extra-tall shirts they have, or wait and do it after I’d maybe stopped by the store again in a week or too. Putting the truck in gear, I thought with a smile: Well, Mom is almost out of RC Cola…

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