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Erotic Story:
The Closet Fuck
This is about the day I went
into the closet. We'd been taking inventory at work, late on a Saturday.
We'd put it off for as long as we could, it was a bitch of a job, and
everybody had somewhere else they'd rather be. I'd volunteered to help Chas
put the supplies away. We hauled the shit into the big storage closet, and I
bumped the wooden block as we walked in. Chas whipped around and said
"Don't....let the door close." I turned around at the dull thud behind me. I
shrugged, went over and tried the handle. Wouldn't move. I shook it. Not a
tremor. I looked at Chas. "It's broken," he said quietly. "We can't get out
from the inside."
We pounded on the door an howled for about an hour, then gave up. We were
fucking stuck in there until Monday morning. As far as temporary prisons
go, it wasn't too bad. It was the only storeroom, so it had all sorts of
stuff in it, including food, drink, a small bathroom, a single cot the owner
used when he got pissed off at his lover, a radio with extra batteries, and
several bottles of really cheap whiskey. Chas sat on the cot, rested his
elbows on his knees and hung his head. I'm a pacer. I paced back and forth,
every once in a while looking down at Chas. Funny guy, Chas is. So smart
he's scary, competent, reliable...that's how everybody thinks of him. You
have to look twice to realize he's got dark, burning brown eyes, a classic
face, and a full, tender mouth. I kept pacing, and tried to ignore the bulge
in my jeans, and suddenly got scared as hell about what I was doing. Chas
looked up at me. "You couldn't just do dinner and a movie, could you?" he
said quietly. "You had to lock us up in a fucking tomb." I stopped pacing.
I couldn't look at him. I swallowed hard. "You know?" I said. "Yes," he said
quietly. "I know." I heard the cot creak as he got up. He was behind me,
then pressed against me. I could feel his hard cock thrusting against my
ass, his hands on my chest and his lips on my neck. I almost came in my
pants. I'd wanted this so fucking long.
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