Aisle Seven is the most boring place on earth and I have gotten hard in it four separate times, so.
Nights at the warehouse are pallet wrap and barcode guns and fluorescent lights that hum like they’re judging you. Midnight count is the only part of the shift where it’s just me and Andre, because everybody else goes to the dock to smoke and Andre, who runs nights, always says “Devin, with me, Aisle Seven” like it’s a punishment. Like it’s the worst job in the building.
It’s the best job in the building. Andre’s a big quiet guy with forearms like he moves furniture for fun and a voice that doesn’t go up when he’s mad. It just goes flat. Flat and low, and my whole body hears it before my brain does.
I should say what I wear under my cargo pants, because it matters. Panties. Always. Black cotton ones with a little lace at the hip, or the grey ones with the bow, and I shave my legs and my thighs rub soft against the canvas all night, and nobody at work knows. That’s the secret I carry around the building like a coin in my cheek. I’m a femboy who stacks pallets for a living and nobody’s ever looked twice.
Andre looked twice.
It started as a joke. About a month ago he was scanning a shelf tag and said, not even looking at me, “Hands behind your back while I do this.” I put them behind my back. He kept scanning. Neither of us said anything. The scanner beeped.
After that it was a thing. “Stand there.” “Hold this.” “Don’t move.” Little flat orders, every count, and every single time I did it. Every time I felt that stupid drop in my stomach like missing a stair.
Tonight we were halfway down the aisle, and he lowered the scanner and looked at me instead of the shelf.
“You know I notice that, right?”
My mouth went dry. “Notice what?”
“You like it when I tell you what to do.”
The vent over us kicked on. Somebody’s forklift beeped way off at the dock.
“Maybe,” I said.
He studied me for a second, and he didn’t smile, but his eyes did something. “Finish the count,” he said. “Clock out. Then come to the break room across the lot.”
“The one they rent for the overnight crews?”
“The one nobody’s in at one a.m.,” Andre said, and scanned the next tag like nothing had happened.
I have never counted so badly in my life. I lost track at a hundred and ninety twice and had to start the whole row over, and he let me, and I could feel him behind me the entire time, like heat off an oven.
break room · 3 AM, vending machine glow
The break room across the lot is a cinder block box with a vending machine, plastic chairs, a corkboard of safety notices, and a microwave that smells like fish from 2019. He was already in there when I came in, leaning on the table with his arms crossed, work shirt untucked.
“Door,” he said.
I shut it and turned the little lock, and my hands were shaking on it.
“Come here.”
I walked over. I stopped about a foot away.
“Closer.”
I stopped where my boots touched his.
“Kneel.”
I got down on the linoleum so fast my knees cracked. It was cold and gritty through my cargos, and I looked up at him, and God, he looked huge from there, belly of his shirt, belt buckle, the line of his jaw way up above.
“Look at me.”
I looked.
“Good.”
That one word. I swear to god. It went through me like a hot wire, and I shuddered all over, right there on the floor, and I heard myself make this tiny noise. Andre heard it too.
“Oh,” he said, low. “Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
“Good,” he said again, on purpose, and my dick jumped in my panties so hard I thought he’d see it through my pants.
He did see. His eyes dropped, and came back up, and he finally smiled, this slow awful smile.
“Hands on your thighs. Tell me what you want.”
My face was on fire. I looked at his belt. I looked back up. “Service,” I said. It came out tiny.
“Specific.”
“Your cock in my mouth,” I said. “Please.”
Something in his face went dark and pleased. “Good,” he said, and undid his belt, and the sound of that buckle in the quiet room was the hottest sound I have ever heard in my life. He unzipped. He pushed his jeans down just enough, and his cock was right there, thick and heavy and already half hard, and I leaned forward with my mouth open like an idiot.
His hand caught my chin.
“Did I say go?”
Every nerve I own lit up. “No.”
“Wait.”
I waited. Three seconds. Four. His cock was an inch from my mouth and I could smell him, sweat and warehouse and warm skin, and I was panting and my hands were gripping my own thighs so hard I’d have marks.
“Now.”
I took him in.
He was hot and heavy on my tongue and he tasted like salt, and I sucked slow, because I knew he’d want slow, and his hand slid around to the back of my head and just rested there. Not pushing. Just there. A big warm weight, letting me know whose head it was.
“Eyes up.”
I looked up, with my mouth stretched around him.
“Good boy.”
I swear I almost came in my pants right then.
“Slower,” he said, and I slowed, and he said “That’s it,” and every instruction felt like a treat dropped in my mouth. I wanted the next one so bad I’d have done anything. He figured that out in about a minute and a half. His voice got lower and lower, and mine got quieter and quieter, until all that was in the room was the vending machine humming and the wet sound of me taking more of him.
“Hands behind your back.”
I put them there, wrists crossed at my spine, and the position tipped my chest out and left my whole face and mouth wide open for him, and it was exactly the helpless thing I’d been fishing for in Aisle Seven for a month. His breath hitched. His fingers tightened in my hair, and he started to move, just short slow rolls of his hips, and I took it, and my eyes were watering, and I wanted it harder.
I tried to say so. It came out as a muffled whine around his dick.
“Yeah,” Andre said, rough. “I know.”
Then he pulled out. I almost cried.
“Up,” he said. “On the table.”
I scrambled up. He shoved the safety binder aside, and it hit the floor with a slap, and he turned me around by the hips and bent me over the cheap laminate table with my cheek pressed against it and my hands still behind my back, because he hadn’t said I could move them.
He pulled my cargos down. And then he stopped.
“Devin.”
“What.”
“What’s this?”
His thumb ran along the lace at my hip. I couldn’t breathe. “Panties.”
“Under work pants. Every night?”
“Every night.”
“Fuck,” Andre said, and it sounded like he meant it. A big warm palm went flat over my ass, over the cotton, and squeezed, and my knees almost went. “You’ve been walking around my building like this.”
“Yes.”
“With your legs shaved.”
“Yes, Andre, please.”
“Good,” he said. He pulled them aside, not down. Just aside, so the lace dragged, and I felt the cool air and then his thumb, wet from his own mouth, pressing right where I needed it. I dropped my forehead on the table and made a sound I’m glad nobody else was around to hear.
He took his time. That’s the cruel thing about how Andre is. He got me open with his thumb and then two fingers while he talked to me in that flat low voice. “Stay still.” “Breathe.” “That’s it.” “Look how well you take it,” and I was babbling into the table, saying yes and please and his name, and rubbing my dick against the edge of the laminate through my panties because I couldn’t stop.
“Don’t,” he said, and I froze. “Not until I say.”
“Andre—”
“Wait.”
I waited. I shook. I think I might’ve been crying a little.
Then his cock was there, pushing, thick and slow, and I opened up around him with a long ragged moan, and he went all the way in with one hard steady push that put his hips flat against my ass. He stayed there. I felt his belly against my back and his hand come up and wrap around the back of my neck, lightly, just holding.
“Good,” he said, in my ear. “So good. Look at you.”
And he fucked me.
It wasn’t rough, exactly. It was certain. He had a rhythm and he never lost it, deep hard strokes that rocked the whole table and made the corkboard rattle on the wall, and every time he bottomed out he said something. “Mine, tonight.” “That’s it.” “Take it.” The vending machine hummed. My boots scraped the floor. The lace of my panties was soaked through at the front and sliding against the table every time he drove me forward.
“Please,” I said. “Please, please, can I—”
“Can you what.”
“Can I come, please, I’m gonna—”
His hand slid under me, around the front, and closed on my dick through the wet cotton, and he squeezed once, hard.
“Now.”
I came so hard my vision went white. I screamed into my own forearm and shook all over the table, soaked my panties, soaked his hand, and he groaned right behind me and drove in deep, and I felt him let go, pulsing hot and thick inside me, his whole weight pressed on my back and his teeth against my shoulder through my shirt.
For a while the only thing in the room was breathing.
He pulled out slowly. I whimpered. He fixed my panties back over me, which was somehow the filthiest and sweetest thing, snapping the lace into place with one finger, and pulled my cargos up, and then he sat me down on the floor with my back against the vending machine, because my legs weren’t doing anything useful.
He crouched. He handed me a water out of his own jacket.
“Good?”
“Very,” I croaked.
He laughed, the first real laugh I’d heard from him all month, and ran a hand through my sweaty hair. Then he went and stood at the window facing the warehouse, the big dark shape of the building with a few lit windows, and looked at it for a minute.
“Aisle Seven tomorrow?”
I started laughing, and couldn’t stop. “It’s so boring.”
“Yeah,” Andre said. “It’s the worst.”
We walked back to our cars at two in the morning. The count had been done for an hour.
Next night there was a yellow sticky note on my locker, in the same block capitals he uses on the pallet tags.
I wore the grey ones.
Aisle Seven is still boring. I count it every night, with my hands behind my back, in lace, thinking about the vending machine.
That’s the best part. It never gets less boring. It never gets less good.
