ARDEN TOMAS STORIES Chapter: 7

SMOKING SHELL CODE

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: 18+ EXPLICIT MATERIAL ⚠️
This story contains graphic depictions of explicit sexual acts between consenting adult men. Reader discretion is advised.

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The air in the factory smoking shell was a mix of cold November and distant machine oil. It was a concrete bunker, but to me, it was a sanctuary. Especially since he started coming there. Ben. The production line engineer. The kind with a reddish-brown beard that looked like it had been singed by autumn leaves, so well-groomed you wondered what it felt like to run your fingers through it. An average body, a little soft around the middle—which, God, suited him so damn well, gave his shape something warm, accessible. His jeans always fit his thighs just right, and that certain front bulge... well, let's not even go there. My goal was not to go there. For months, we just nodded at each other. I watched him from the corner of my eye; he glanced back—a flash of a look, so hot and so fast I'd doubt I'd even seen it.

Then last week, he spoke.

"Tamás, right? Logistics?" he asked, lighting a cigarette. His voice was deeper than I'd imagined, with a slight local twang that made it unexpectedly intimate.
"Yeah. Ben, right? The production line genius."
He smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled. The kind of smile that isn't just on the mouth.
"Genius... more like the guy trying to keep his last shred of sanity in that hell. Tell me, what do you do when three trucks arrive at once and there's no space?"

And we started talking. About work. Our idiot bosses. Coffee. The five-minute break turned into thirty. I felt a warm, invisible bubble form around us instead of the cold concrete walls. His gaze didn't flee. Sometimes he looked at my mouth when I spoke. Once, when he laughed, his hand accidentally brushed against the railing next to mine—no contact, but I felt its warmth.

Then this morning. The Facebook notification. "Ben sent you a friend request." I clicked quickly. Single. No pictures with girls. Just a couple of photos of his dog, one in the mountains. My heart beat as if I were measuring the plant's core temperature.

But the story, right? Here comes the good part.

Last night there was overtime. We stayed late, barely anyone in the building. Around nine, I went out for a last "break." He was there too. Alone. The neon light cast a yellow glow on him.
"You're still here?" I asked.
"The ghost of the production line," he replied, taking a deep drag. "You?"
"The ghost of the warehouse. Eerily empty."
Silence. The distant hum of the city. Then he suddenly said:
"I'm bored. I saw on your Facebook that you write. Novels?"
"Yeah. Mostly... about men."
His eyes flashed. He didn't get scared. Didn't pull back. With a slow, deliberate motion, he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
"I thought so," he said quietly. "Because I... sometimes read those too."
The air became charged, electric. I stepped toward him, him against the wall. Half a meter between us.
"What kind?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
"The kind where... two men meet in a place where they don't have to pretend." His gaze traveled over my face, then down to my neck, my chest. "Like in a smoking shell. Late at night."

I didn't think. I didn't need to. I raised my hand and cautiously touched his beard. It was as soft as velvet, and hot.
"This isn't just reading," I whispered. "This is wanting."
"I know," he groaned, and his head pushed forward. His hand found my hip and pulled me to him. "I've known for months."

The first kiss wasn't gentle. It was greedy, salty from tobacco, and so deep it made me forget everything. My tongue slid into his mouth, and he moaned as he accepted it. His hand gripped my back, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt. My thigh pressed against his, and I felt his hardness in his jeans—a huge, tantalizing bulge.
"Here," he groaned against my lips, and stepped back toward the dark, hidden corner where the cleaning supplies were. A small, lockable closet. He pushed the door shut.

It was dark, only neon light filtering through the cracks. The smell of disinfectant in the air. I didn't care. He pressed his body against me to the wall and kissed me again. His hand slid down my stomach, then wrapped around my erection through my pants.
"My God," he groaned, "all this time... I was just watching you."
"Me too," burst out of me as I slid my hand under his shirt. Smooth, warm skin on his back, a slightly softer layer around his waist. I loved it. I pulled down his jeans, his boxers. He sprang out, thick, curved, the tip already wet. I knelt.

His taste was pure man, a little salt, a little musk. My tongue circled his crown, then I took him in as deep as I could. His hand was in my hair, not pushing, just holding. He moaned above me, his voice ragged, broken.
"I can't... I can't last long," he panted. "Need... need to feel you."

He stood up and turned me around. He braced one hand against the wall, the other pulled down my pants. He wasn't patient. He put a finger in his mouth, wet it, then found my hole behind. A push, and it was in. I gasped at the pain that instantly melted into pleasure. Then, instead of the finger, his tip arrived. A slow but firm pressure that opened me, stretched me, and filled me. He stopped, deep inside. I leaned against his back, felt his beard on my shoulder.

"You... you're the first," he whispered in my ear, his voice trembling. "At the factory. In my life... like this, in so long."
"Then keep me," I groaned back.

And he started to move. It wasn't artistic, it wasn't slow. It was real. Deep, hard thrusts that slammed against the wall, making the detergents rattle on the shelf. One hand on my chest, the other on my hip, and with every move he drove himself deeper into me. I felt his sweat on my back, his panting. Then one hand left my chest and wrapped around my cock from the front. In one motion, he started stroking me in rhythm with his thrusts. The double stimulation made visions flash before my eyes.

"Ben," I groaned, "Ben, I'm gonna come..."
"Me too," he gasped. "Together... let's come together."

And we did. His hand sped up, his movements lost rhythm, becoming wild, disjointed thrusts. Then a long, ragged groan, and I felt him erupt inside me, hot, abundant. The sight, the feeling, the knowledge that I was taking him in, was the final trigger. I came too, convulsing, onto the wall, onto his hand.

We stood like that for minutes, glued together, breathless. Then he carefully pulled out. He turned me around and kissed me again, slowly, deeply, tasting my own flavor in his mouth.

"On the weekend," he said, pressing his forehead to mine, "not here. At your place. Or mine. If you want."
"I want," I said. There was no question.

And that was just the beginning...

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