by BRK

Pizza toppings can sometimes be more than they appear.

Added: Sep 2009 1,559 words 8,426 views 3.0 stars (4 votes)


I’ll admit it’s little bit of a drag being as horny as I am all the time. It looks like fun, and I have lots of great sex, but in the meantime I’ve got a semi-boner practically all the time, like my cock can’t get enough action. And if a guy even remotely my type wanders into my field of vision, my semi like doubles in size, fighting like hell to get out of my pants. And if it does manage to get out, look out dudes, ‘cause that’s when it starts getting hard for real. That’s when my brain kind of tunes out and my gonads take over.

So yeah, my dick can really get in the way. So to speak. But there was one night a few weeks ago when I became eternally grateful for my demon cock.

I was working behind the counter at Luigi’s Pizza off campus. I like working there for loads of reasons. First off, I love the smell. Any kind of Italian tomato sauce, the basil, oregano, all those smells are so sexy to me. And the uniform is perfect: a tight golf shirt to show off the upper bod I’ve been beating into shape at the school gym since junior high, and a little apron to hide the big lump in my pants. Not that I’m ashamed of it, or even that I don’t want people to see it. I love people to see it. But you know, that whole out-of-sight, out-of-mind thing works sometimes.

Or at least it does if he doesn’t walk in.

Shit. Peter Burgess. I see him and suddenly it looks like I’ve got a python in my jeans, trying frantically to get out.

It’s not that he’s that huge or abnormally gorgeous. he’s just—perfect. He’s at least 6’4” and built like Michelangelo’s David, only with bigger pecs. His face is beautiful, his smile intoxicating. But it’s more than that. It’s the package. You want to touch him. And people do, all the time. His friends are all totally straight, but whenever they’re with him they always have their arms around his shoulders, a hand on his back, pressing a hand against his marble abs without even realizing it, all kinds of shit like that.

I was smitten. And my cock wanted him even more than I did. Especially when he turned and left, giving me and my cock a look at the awesome ass my cock wanted desperately to call home.

He was there that night, alone for once. He looked even hotter than usual, literally and figuratively. He’d just come from playing hoops, I thought, and his tee shirt was plastered to his torso, showing off his pumped pecs and tight eight-pack.

“Hey dude,” he said, stepping up to the counter and tossing me a cock-pumping smile.

“Hey,” I said casually. “Usual?” He nodded.

I turned to heat up his sausage and pepperoni slice and grab a Code Red from the fridge, and when I turned back I froze. Well, all of me froze except my cock, which was actually pushing up out of the pocket of my jeans in a desperate attempt to escape—fortunately, under my apron, though there was a ridge of flesh under that canvas camouflage if you knew to look for it.

The reason for my stiffening all over? He had pulled off his shirt and was mopping his rock-hard torso with it!

I was totally boned, my extra-wide cock pushing straight up through my left pants pocket, straining against the white cotton of the pocket lining it had pushed out, like it wanted to get even bigger. I actually gulped.

Quickly I turned, counted slowly to 10, and pulled the slice out of the hot oven. I dropped it in a slice box, trying not to look and failing badly. He seemed not to notice—he’d tossed his sopping shirt over his brawny, sweat-dappled shoulder (sooo hot) and was already pulling a five out of his wallet. I took it from him, almost touching his hand, and started toward the cash register to make change, but he tossed me another smile and turned to go. Watching his ass framed by perfect legs and a perfect shirtless back, my dick somehow got even harder than it had already got. As soon as he was gone I called to Manny in the storeroom to take over the front and bolted for the private john in the back of the store.

All this is by way of saying it was Peter’s fault I was in the men’s room that night jerking off my biggest boner ever.

I was flogging my cock with two fists, totally oblivious to anything. Turns out I hadn’t even gotten the door all the way closed, because after I exploded with cum—which I barely managed to get all in my mouth—I heard people talking by the back door to the alley. At first I was annoyed—my dick was still mostly hard (I was still swallowing the cum) and I was stuck in the head until it went down or they went way. But then I started listening and my interest was piqued.

“I’m not sure I like this,” said a voice I recognized as Luigi, the owner. I frowned. What would Luigi not like? Was it something like shutting down the store? Layoffs? Piped-in Olivia Newton-John?

A slightly deeper voice answered. “You liked the money,” it said. “And you’re serving your country.” A spook? What did the Feds want with a campus pizza joint?

“Italy? I don’t think this is serving Italy.”

I smiled, but the Fed apparently thought Luigi was being dense, because he said, “No, Mr. Salvatore, America.”

“Ah,” Luigi said, as if he understood now. I had to keep from laughing.

“Just do what you agreed to and try not to think about it.”

“But how will I know who to serve it to?” Luigi asked.

“C’mon, you know who the ROTC kids are, uniform or not,” the Fed said. And I realized we did: there was a sizable contingent on campus, and they ate here in groups. You could tell ‘em on sight.

“I’ll return in two months to replenish your supply and do some observation,” he went on. “If this test works out and those boys are significantly bigger, we’ll expand the program, and you’ll get a formal note of appreciation from the joint chiefs. You won’t be able to show it to anyone, but—“

“That’s okay, the thanks will be enough.” Again, Luigi’s sarcasm went over the Fed’s head. But my brain was stuck on the word bigger.

“Okay, sign here that you’ve taken delivery,” the Fed said. “Five boxes of the pepperoni, five of the sausage, five of the green peppers.”

I heard the scratching of a pen. “Will it go bad?”

“No,” said the Fed, as if Luigi were being dense again. “It’s not really pizza toppings, Mr. Salvatore—it just looks and tastes like it.”

“Technology these days,” said Luigi snidely.

“I know—ain’t it grand?” I heard footsteps, and the back door slammed shut. The Fed was gone.

By now my cock was manageable, so I shoved it into my pants and retied my apron. In a sudden burst of inspiration I pulled my iPod earbuds out of my apron pocket and, after flushing and washing my hands, exited the john as if I were listening to music and didn’t even notice Luigi, standing there lost in thought by the back door, staring at three stacks of nondescript boxes.

As I headed toward the front Luigi came out of his reverie and noticed me. “Hey! Frank!” I pretended not to hear, lost in my imaginary playlist. “Frank!” Luigi shouted.

I stopped and turned, pulling out an earbud inquiringly.

“Come help me put these boxes in the Dumpster,” he said, gesturing to the three stacks of soldier-enbuffing pizza toppings.

I must have frowned in amazement, because Luigi explained, “They’re bad. Come on!”

So Luigi and I lugged the boxes to the Dumpster out back. Once the last of it was tossed, we headed in, and I thought I heard him mutter, “Those boys are big enough.”

I worked the rest of my shift in a daze most unlike my usual daze. I don’t even remember most of it—even though a couple of my more minor crushes came through for slices and other stuff. Kevin the basketball hunk came in, ordered his usual chicken parm hero, and even sat and ate it at one of the tables where I could stare at him, but my head was elsewhere.

Luigi and Manny were already gone when I closed up. Locking the back door I walked down the alley toward my truck, which was parked near the alley entrance. I walked past the Dumpster, and slowed down. And stopped.

You know what I did next.

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