the outbound lead at my warehouse left his gloves on my counter on purpose. he followed me home

Monday · September 28

throwaway bc half of receiving follows my main. this was back in january. posting now bc it’s getting cold again and the heater by dock 4 is making The Noise and i can’t stop thinking about it.

ok so. i’m 24, femboy, i work receiving at a fulfillment center out in groveport (not saying which, there are like nine). second shift, 3:30 to midnight. i wear a hi-vis vest over a crop hoodie and i paint my nails and nobody cares as long as the trailers get unloaded. i’m gonna call the guy L. he’s 29, outbound lead, like 6'1, beard, forearms that look like he could lift a pallet jack instead of pushing it. straight as far as the building knows. had a girlfriend till last summer. i know this bc he complained about her in the break room like she was weather.

outbound and receiving are on opposite ends of the building. the only time we overlap is like 9:40 when both sides slow down and everyone migrates to the big propane heater by dock 4 bc the building can move 10,000 cases a night but cannot for the life of it be warmer than 58 degrees.

L hates the cold. like personally. two thermals under his vest, beanie, and these brown leather work gloves with black palms that he’s had since before i started. the right thumb was split at the seam and he’d been wearing them like that for weeks, his thumb poking out, complaining.

i liked hearing him complain. that was the problem.

friday the heater died. like actually died, clicked and quit at 9:38. facilities said monday.

L stood in front of it staring like it had cheated on him.

“you look devastated,” i said.

“this place is inhumane.”

“it’s 58 degrees.”

“exactly.”

“you own a coat.”

“i shouldn’t need a coat indoors.”

“you work in a warehouse.”

“i have principles.”

his ears were bright red. i reached out without thinking and pressed the backs of two fingers to his cheek, like my mom used to check for fever.

he froze.

“so cold,” i said.

L looked at me. the whole dock was loud. forklifts beeping, somebody’s bluetooth speaker playing morgan wallen, trailer doors banging. and he just looked at me for a long time.

then he caught my wrist. not hard. just enough that i couldn’t pretend the touch was nothing.

“what are you doing,” he said.

“checking for frostbite.”

“liar.”

he let go. then he pulled the right glove off with his teeth and held it out.

“feel the seam.”

i put it on. his glove was huge on me, warm inside from his hand, the leather gone soft and dark where his palm sweats. the split thumb gaped when i moved.

“you need new gloves.”

“these are my good ones.”

“i can sew it.”

he laughed. “you sew?”

“my mom would disown me if i couldn’t fix a seam.”

he looked at his glove on my hand. my pink nails sticking out of the split thumb.

“after shift?” he said.

that’s it. that’s how it started. him. he asked. i want that on the record bc my group chat still thinks i jumped him.

he followed me home at 12:20. my place is a one bedroom off hamilton road above a laundromat. he parked his f-150 behind my civic and sat in it with the engine running for like three full minutes. i stood on the stairs with my keys and watched him sit there. the dome light was on. he had both hands on the wheel.

i texted the chat, bc i’m a bad person:

(yes the chat knows my name, no i’m not changing it in the screenshot, it’s a common enough name, cope)

then the engine cut off. he came up the stairs holding both gloves like a guy delivering a pizza he wasn’t sure he ordered.

inside he stood in my kitchen in his vest and beanie while i got my sewing tin out, the old danish cookie tin with the thread in it, every femboy has one. i sat on the counter and did the thumb with heavy brown thread, whip stitch, doubled over. took me like eight minutes. he watched every single stitch. didn’t say anything. just stood between my knees basically, bc my kitchen is the size of a closet and there wasn’t anywhere else to stand.

i bit the thread off and handed it back.

he put it on. flexed. made a fist.

“better than new,” he said.

“that’s dramatic.”

“you like being told you did good?”

i looked at him. he knew. i knew he knew.

“do you?” i said.

his face changed. “maybe.”

and then he just stood there. glove on. breathing through his nose. his eyes went to my mouth and then to the window and then to the floor and then to my mouth again.

“i don’t,” he said. “i haven’t. with a guy.”

“ok.”

“i’m not saying no.”

“ok.”

“i’m saying i don’t know what i’m doing.”

i took his gloved hand and put it on my thigh. right above the knee, on my leggings. the leather was cold on the outside and warm where it bent.

“you’re doing it,” i said.

he looked at his own hand on my leg for like five seconds. then he slid it up. slow. all the way up the inside of my thigh till the side of his thumb, the one i just fixed, pressed right against my cock through the leggings. i was already hard. obviously. i’d been hard since the parking lot.

he felt it. his breath went out of him like he got punched.

“fuck,” he said. very quiet.

“is that a problem.”

he squeezed. through the leggings, with the glove on, a slow hard squeeze that made my hips jerk off the counter.

“no,” he said. “that’s not a problem.”

he kissed me like he was mad at it. beard scraping my chin, one hand in the glove on my cock and the other bare on the back of my neck. he tasted like the black coffee from the vending machine and the cold. i got my hands under his vest and his two thermals and his stomach was so warm i almost cried.

i slid off the counter onto my knees. my kitchen floor is that fake wood vinyl and it was freezing and i did not care at all.

“can i,” i said, hands on his belt.

he nodded. then said it. “yeah. yes.”

i undid his work pants. carhartt double fronts, brass button, stiff. pulled his boxers down and his cock bounced up and almost hit my face.

ok. listen. he was big. not porn big, real big, which is worse. thick, uncut, the foreskin pulled halfway back off a fat dark-pink head already shiny at the tip, and heavy enough that it bobbed when his pulse went. he smelled like warehouse and soap and sweat from a nine hour shift and something underneath that was just him. dark hair, trimmed. his balls were tight up against him from the cold.

i looked up at him. he was looking down at me like he couldn’t believe the view.

“you ok?” he said.

“you’re huge.”

he laughed, one rough laugh, embarrassed. “sorry.”

“don’t be sorry,” i said, and licked him from his balls to the tip.

his whole body jolted. his gloved hand came down on my head, the leather on my hair, and he grabbed the edge of the counter with the bare one.

i sucked the head in and worked the foreskin back with my lips and he made a noise like a guy lifting something heavy. i went down slow. he stretched my jaw right away, i felt it in the hinges, and i got maybe halfway before he bumped the back of my throat and i gagged, hard, eyes watering instantly.

he pulled back like he’d hurt me. “shit, sorry—”

i grabbed his hips and pulled him right back in.

he got it. his gloved hand closed in my hair.

“ok,” he said, kinda awed. “ok. you want it.”

i hummed yes around him.

“look at you,” he said. “look at you, pip.”

(yeah he said my name. he said it the whole time.)

i took more. i breathed through my nose and relaxed my throat like i’ve practiced on things i will not describe on this website and he slid deeper and my eyes streamed and spit ran down my chin onto my crop hoodie. he started moving his hips a little, careful, the glove steering my head. the leather smelled like him. every time i came up for air he pulled me back down by the hair with that fixed thumb pressed against my scalp and i could feel the stitches i’d made.

“fuck. your mouth,” he kept saying. “your fucking mouth.”

“good?” i gasped when he let me up.

“so good. you’re so good at this. open.”

i opened.

he pulled me up off the floor before he came. just hauled me up by my arms like i was a case of water and turned me around and bent me over my own kitchen table. it’s a folding table from target. it slid like six inches.

“i don’t have—” he said.

“bathroom. top drawer. condoms and lube.”

he went. came back. i heard the foil. i heard him breathing. then nothing, for long enough that i looked back over my shoulder.

he was standing there with the condom on and lube on his bare fingers and the glove still on the other hand, looking at my ass with my leggings pulled down to my knees like it was a load he had to figure out how to strap.

“you can,” i said. “i want you to.”

“tell me if—”

“i’ll tell you. fuck me, L.”

(i said his real name. i’m not typing it.)

he did the fingers first. he’d clearly googled something at some point in his life bc he was careful, one finger, slow, then two. i was pushing back on them within a minute, begging, which i’m not proud of. then he lined up.

the head pushed against my hole and i had to breathe out. and breathe out again. he was so thick it burned, a real stretch-burn like the first time every time, and i made a sound into my own forearm.

he stopped dead. “pip.”

“don’t stop. go slow. just go.”

he went slow. i felt every inch. the burn melted into this full aching heat and when his hips finally pressed flush against my ass i was shaking all the way down to my feet.

“oh my god,” he said. “oh my fucking god you’re tight.”

“move.”

he moved. long slow strokes that dragged all the way out and pushed all the way back in, and the table creaked, and then he found the angle and i yelped and he laughed, low, like he’d just figured out a machine. and then he did it again. and again.

and then he reached under me with the gloved hand and wrapped it around my cock.

the leather. listen. the leather was warm from his hand and a little rough and my cock was so wet it slid right through his fist and the fixed thumb dragged over the head every stroke and i genuinely saw stars. i was making noises i didn’t know i made. my neighbor downstairs does laundry at like 1am and i do not know if she heard me over the dryers and i will never know.

“that good?” he said in my ear. “you like my glove on you?”

“yes. yes. don’t stop.”

“whose glove is it.”

“yours.”

“who fixed it.”

“me,” i said, and i was laughing and crying a little and he was fucking me harder, the table sliding across the vinyl an inch at a time.

“good boy,” he said, like he was trying it out.

that did it. i came in his glove. just came all over the leather, my whole body clamping down on him, spurting through his fingers onto my own table.

he groaned when i squeezed him and his rhythm went to hell.

“pip. pip. i’m gonna—”

“do it. come in me.”

he slammed in once. twice. his hand grabbed my hip so hard i had marks tuesday. then he held deep and i felt his cock jump inside me, over and over, thick pulses i could feel through the condom, and he made this sound, this long broken sound into the back of my neck, like he’d been holding it since the heater died. his whole weight came down on me. the table finally hit the wall.

we stayed like that for a while. him panting in my hair. his gloved hand still around my softening cock, sticky.

after he pulled out and dealt with the condom and stood in my kitchen barefoot with his carhartts still around his ankles, drinking water out of a mug with a cartoon frog on it.

“you good?” he said.

“i’m so good.”

he looked at the glove. my cum drying on the leather.

“i’m not washing this,” he said, deadpan, and i laughed so hard i had to sit on the floor.

saturday morning he was still there. he made eggs. he left at noon. the gloves were on my counter.

“take those,” i said.

“monday.”

“you need them.”

“i got another pair.”

“you said these were your good ones.”

“they’re better here,” he said, and left.

monday the heater was fixed. L complained that it was too hot. his hands were bare.

it’s september now. the heater is making The Noise again. the gloves are still on my counter next to the danish cookie tin. he’s over like three nights a week and he still won’t take them home.

edit: people asking if he’s out now. no. he told the outbound guys he “has someone.” that’s all they’re getting and honestly that’s all i need.