Check, Mate (ManxMan)

Prologue - Gumbo

Prologue – Gumbo

Eat my dick, bitch.

—Cody Johnson

Others spend their break smoking pot or drinking Coke. Me? I don’t. I rather have someone bend over.

“Cody, god damn it, it hurts!” he yells at me and I don’t give a damn. I’m on my fʊcking break, literally. And whether he likes to admit or not, he’s enjoying this, “Aah fuck! My ass hurts, man!”

“Shut up, prep drone. Take it like a good choirboy,” I groan and spit on his crack, pulling him tight and snug against my crotch, jamming his poor hole with my hard, throbbing cock.

“Please, god, please, aaahhhhhhhh…Cody! Fuck!” The pale skin of his buttocks ripples as I hammer him with my tool. My rough and clammy hands—made dank by the oysters I chucked not a moment ago—are grabbing his hips, gripping the muscle tight, with my grimy nails digging and drawing red lines down the supple globes of his backside. “Cody, I didn’t mean to screw the steak fries I swear! I’m really sorry. Aah! Please stop! Cody, please—!” I slap his head and spit on his crack.

“Shut up. Fffuucckk…” my thighs begin to shake as I fight against the growing pressure to come. “Agh…” Fʊcking a trainee is really good because they don’t complain, and even if they do no one will listen anyway. “Stop fighting,” I hiss as I grab a chunk of his skin in my hands to keep him steady.

“Please, Cody, stop...it really hurts!!”

“Shut up, prep, I’m coming. Shut up.”

I like topping men. I realized this when I learned the difference between a vagina and a butthole. A woman gets loose after a few screws, whereas a man’s butthole offers more mileage. “Stop fighting I said.” He is trying to peel my hands away to wriggle free but he is helpless.

Ah shit, I love this feeling. Doing a man makes me aware of my díck and how hard it can get. Aw fuck, I’m close. I don’t expect to build this quickly. But I can’t help it. This boy has a very tight virgin hole. “Ungh…” I shudder as I fill the poor lad with my spunk, my aching shaft getting squeezed of all its man juice. I lock our hips and keep slamming to extend my pleasure, absorbing the feeling of my come as it makes my withdrawal slimier with each thrust.

I pull out and wipe the sweat off my forehead as I fill my lungs with all the oxygen I have lost by doing him. “You ah…you go back to work. Roast the bones for the demi-glace, and make sure the plates are clean and stacked. Carry on.” I pull my zipper up, tuck my shirt, and run a hand through my scalp, fixing what is out of place to look presentable.

“Right…” I say to myself as I wait for my erection to subside. I can feel how sticky it is behind my khakis as it ferments with soggy warmth. Damn it I think to myself while trying to compute how long it will take for the gumbo to cook, because surely that’s what the tourists will order.

I push the swinging doors and step out of the dry-goods area. It’s a bit dark outside with cars driving through the rain, and with that thought I turn my back to enter hell’s kitchen to busy myself as the first batch of patrons spill through the doorway.

“Cody J.” I look up to our chef who I’m assuming is about to scream the orders, “Three orders of steak hache with grilled fries; one order with mashed potatoes, two with chili con carne. Then, six chicken frittatas and the Salty Crab special,” he booms and I calculate in my head the ticking of the clock as I time everything in the kitchen. I bark the orders the chef gave me to the ones below my station. That’s just how restaurants work. There’s hierarchy. I’m the sous chef and I make sure the chef—the one who just gave me the orders—has all the things he needs for cooking. My voice is just as loud as his as I shout at the dishwashers, the prep drone—the one I just fʊcked—the fry cook, grillardin—also known as the grill chef—the saucier—one who does the sauces—and the sluggish waiters.

A busy restaurant is only as good as the sum of its parts, and here in New Orleans—where food needs to be served round the clock—there is very little room for a cook who doesn’t know his job. “Yo Nacho! Flip the goddamned burgers you idiot!” I bellow while pushing the shallots around the pan, roasting them to sweeten to accompany the steak hache. “Prep drone! What the fuck are you doing just standing there!? Prepare the fʊcking plates!” I can’t believe this. I just fʊcked him with all my energy and yet he’s slower than me. “God damn it,” I hiss through teeth and the chef takes over.

I scurry to where a boiling pot of tomato sauce is cooking, the steam from the red magma of goo fogging my vision as I run a wooden ladle to spoon a taste. “Hmm…more…this needs more basil and oregano, mate,” I tell the saucier, who is also busy reducing minced pineapple into a marmalade glaze for the tropical steak casserole. “Cody. Seafood Gumbo. Two family size orders. Stat!”

Just as predicted, the tourists, who are probably told that a trip to New Orleans isn’t complete without a steamy helping of Seafood Gumbo—which is basically shrimp, crab, and lobster drowning in a pool of delicious sauce, served over a mound of steamy rice in a big bowl. Think of an island in the middle of nowhere surrounded by water. Replace the island with a cup of white rice, and then replace the ocean with molten, hot sauce made out from a reduction of spices, meats, onions, celery, and bell peppers. Voila! Seafood Gumbo. Throw in some pre-cooked shrimp, crab, and lobster and you have a New Orleans classic. Oh shit, I forgot something. “Prep drone! Hand me the cooked oysters—!”

“I have a name!” he answers back with sheer grit and what it does is make my temper flare. I’ll be sure to fuck him again before I go home just to teach him a lesson. “Asshole…” I hear him whisper and before I know it I’m already up in his face, dragging him by his collar through the back door.

He screams his juvenile protest as I slam his face against the wall. I pin his arms behind his back using one hand, while my other pulls down his waistband. And before he can make another wiseass remark, I’m already fʊcking his ass hard, gutting him from inside out. “You like that. Huh!?”

I’m down to my last breath as I gasp and come violently inside him in under a minute. I pull out harshly and push him back to go inside. His petulant crying dying in the air as the back door closes, leaving me breathless as I slam my back against the wall, looking out through the dismal rain that clouds the graceful, tree-lined roads, and picture-book villages of my dear old New Orleans.

Chapters to follow once I finish La Bastille ^^ this is but a taste of what’s to come…pun intended. Comment and tell me if this Prologue tastes good. Thank you for reading ^^