Huge Security Guard Wants to Ride My Cock 1

The week hadn't been one for the record books. Everything that could possibly go moderately wrong went horribly wrong. Even things that would ordinarily be nothing more than minor annoyances took on cosmic proportions as the week trudged on.

The high point came with the Wednesday mail. One of the new tellers had cashed five thousand dollars in stolen traveler's checks for a white male of about 23 using a passport issued to Lai Fong Wong (DOB 5 March, 1932). Suddenly that invitation to join a group of misguided friends on a year long nude roller skating trip across Central America looked pretty damned good.

I was in the middle of trying to find out what he could possibly have been thinking (the word "nothing" kept popping into my head) when I heard the familiar rumble of the armored truck pulling up to the front door. The semi remorseful teller was hidden behind a desk, far away from anyone seeking money, and handed a thousand real estate flyers, nine hundred mailing labels and a stern admonition that they all had to go out by the end of the day. I headed for the vault to receive the shipment with my double custody in tow, confident that they'd either forget something vital or drop a box of quarters on my foot.

As we waited outside the vault, behind the triple thick bullet RESISTANT (not bullet PROOF) glass, I noticed it wasn't the usual crew of elderly, perpetually winded guards with sweat stains on top of sweat stains and cholesterol IV drips. We watched with silent admiration as they poured out of the truck and secured the premises.

The biggest one crossed the lobby and planted himself between New Accounts, the street entrance and a sickly banana tree that more than once caught his eye (food?). The others glared threateningly as the truck was unloaded. By the time the dolly was fully weighted down and ready to roll, the testosterone level in the lobby was setting off the smoke alarms and growing hair on Mrs. Goldman's chest. I was impressed.

I don't remember exactly what my first thought was when, having turned away for a moment, I looked up and saw him standing outside the door. A likely guess would be something to the effect of "Holy shit!". Have I mentioned that my grasp of the language fails me in moments of extreme lust?

The man was a walking hard-on for anyone with more than just a passing interest in the male form. For someone with a strong interest in the male form in a UNIFORM, me for example, he was an on the ceiling, running down the walls cum shot on the hoof. Manuel, the sexy guard who picked up the morning work, had met his match.

His name tag read "J.BUSCH" and he stood a shade over six feet tall. His light brown hair was cut in a modified military style that complimented his strong Mid West farm boy features. The gray eyes were large and alert.

My eyes traveled up and down his lean, tightly muscled frame as we stared at each other through the barrier. The jumpsuit had just been reinvented. Unlike the other guys on the truck, he didn't just occupy it; he filled it out and made it home. I was about to fixate on the way the legs were tucked neatly into the tops of his shiny black boots when he nodded toward the locked door and waited patiently for me to push the "unlock" buzzer.

He smiled (knowingly?) and guided the dolly toward the inner room. Walking several paces behind, my eyes rested on the one of the most beautiful pair of buns I had ever seen: high, firm and perfectly proportioned to the rest of his body. I resisted the temptation to send my double custody partner packing, spinning off the combination and pulling the massive door closed behind us and got down to the mundane task of banking.

I watched enthralled as he loaded and unloaded the boxes and bags and wondered, briefly, if he hadn't bent over just a little too long. Yeah, right.

Thoughts of seeing that ass upturned and waiting were still banging around in my head when I realized he was addressing me. Past the lethal Smith and Wesson, I turned my attention to a point where I was looking (more or less) into his eyes.

"I want to sit on your dick," he announced brusquely.

I shook my head, not quite believing what I had just heard.

"Excuse me?"

"I said sign here please. That's fifty boxes and three bags."

"Oh yeah... Sorry."

Damn!

He nodded as he tucked the clip board under his bulging bicep, turned on his heel and walked out the door. The click of the outer door lock brought me, reluctantly, back to the real world. The testosterone level in the lobby dropped to acceptable E.P.A. levels and it was back to business as usual. There was still the matter of the Good Samaritan teller who now had another million or so to give away.

The weekend came at last. In keeping with my usual Friday night routine, I headed for The Spike to dump on my friend Russ. He had listened to enough bank horror stories to know when I needed a sympathetic ear.

I recounted every past mistake, corporate and otherwise, that had contributed to my hyperkinetic condition. He was about to hear the part about the generous teller when Rick the bartender tapped me on the shoulder.

"Sorry to interrupt, guys. I know you don't usually accept them, but that guy at the end insists on buying your next beer. Is it okay?"

"Tell the man I said thank you but..."

Rick stopped me.

"Trust me and ask no questions," he said firmly. "You don't want to turn this one down."

I placed my near empty bottle on the counter.

"Screw it. I guess once won't kill me."

I held up the bottle and thanked the entire South end of the bar, not really looking at anyone in particular. A couple of swallows later, Rick came back with a piece of paper, a pen and a bewildered expression.

"He wants you to sign for it."

"He what?"

"He wants you to sign here... please."

I turned around again and froze. Instead of a happy drunk blowing the last traces of his unemployment check, I was looking into the face of none other than "J.BUSCH". I smiled stupidly, nodded and turned to Russ who had already set his sights on a hot little Hispanic guy across the room.

"Holy sit! It's HIM!"

"Who's him? You know that guy over there? What's his name?"

"No, I mean the one at the end of the bar. It's the armored car guy."

"What armored car guy? You never told me about any armored car guy. When did you..."

The last half of my first beer was gone before he could finish the question. Right on cue, my hormones had kicked in. I was sporting a major hard-on that was going to make getting through the crowd a challenge.

I edged around a slender twink, resplendent in designer leather and lip-synching "Respect" and started for the far end of the room. Russ, I assumed, had locked the Latin Lad in his sights and was moving in for the kill. Ready, aim, fire.

He smiled as I approached and, unless my eyes deceived me, shifted on the stool to afford an unobstructed view of the large hole in the crotch of his Levis. Abstruse was obviously not in his off duty vocabulary.

"I was beginning to think I had read you the wrong way when I sent down that beer," he said as our eyes met.

I tried to NOT stare at the gaping tear in his pants. Even if I could, which I normally couldn't, I'd have made an exception for him. Of course he didn't have to know that.

"You thought I could be had for the price of a beer?"

"We wouldn't be having this conversation if I thought you could. I meant at the bank."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Not at all. I was... Oh never mind."

"You were...what?"

"Well, after seeing nothing but "bank types" waiting at the door all day, I was surprised when I saw you."

My ears were burning. I was turning red.

"Don't b-be fooled. I've g-got a whole drawer full of plastic pocket protectors at home," I stammered.

He glanced down at my hard-on, which showed no signs of backing off, and ran his finger up and down its length.

"I'm willing to bet you don't even own a pocket protector."

My brain seemed to have shut down as, once again, I was at a loss for words. Suddenly all I could think of was how much I wanted to see him naked.

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written by michaelm