Chapter 1
His name was Morris.
I called himMorris, the Mormon. He was a transplant from Utah who'd been assigned to sunny southern California, the land of sinners and sodomites. I wasn't clear on the full story. It seemed he'd 'failed' at his mission after high school, whatever that means, and now he was just trying to make ends meet for the summer as a 22-year-old delivery guy.
He was clean-cut, polite, smiled but didn't say much. His wavy, dark blond hair was always meticulously cut and parted along his left side. When he dropped off deliveries at the bathhouse, he wore a brown uniform; polo shirt, and neatly ironed shorts that cut above the knees. I saw him at least once a week. Every time that big brown truck pulled up to the door, my underwear got a little tight. It seemed I'd developed the hots for Morris, the Mormon.
I worked the day shift at the front counter. Probably not as exciting as you might think. Lots of wild stuff happenedinsidethe bathhouse, but I only got a preview of it.
Mostly I just saw men arriving and leaving the building. They walked through a double set of glass doors into the small lobby, where I greeted them. They were buzzing with nervous energy as they showed me their ID and paid the admission fee. Later I watched as they strolled out, looking dreamy-eyed and blissful.
Morris delivered most of our supplies. We bought industrial-sized buckets of lube—yes,buckets. Condoms, toys, restraints, towels, bleach, and mops. Most of it was boxed up pretty discreetly, so you couldn't tell what's inside. A couple of times, I noticed Morris shaking boxes before he brought them through the doors. Like he was curious about their contents.
One time we had an order of fuck machines. It was a shipment of ten. The parts were packaged in long tubular boxes to house the metal frames, and there were separate smaller boxes for the motors. I helped Morris carry them inside despite his saying it wasn't necessary. Sure, carrying boxes was his job, but some of the pieces were pretty heavy. I wasn't the type of guy to just sit behind the counter and not help out.
A box with a motor in it tumbled to the ground pretty hard, and he started apologizing profusely, asking if the item was fragile, if it would still work.
I shrugged it off and said, "I'm sure it's fine. It's for a fuck machine, so it's pretty durable."
He blinked and fumbled to compose himself. At first, I thought I'd offended him with my crassness. You get immune to four-letter words when you work at a bathhouse. But it turned out he was trying to work up the courage to ask me more about the machine.
"Wow, I've never heard of something like that," he said. "How does it work?"
It was the most he'd ever said to me in the month or so he'd been working our route. Usually, it was just "sign here, please" or "have a nice day."
So I said to him, "It's simple. We put it together on a steel frame that sits on the floor. There's a pole attached in the middle that probes forward and backward. You attach a dildo to the end, and then it fucks you up the ass." I figured there was no need for modesty.
"Interesting." His forehead scrunched up as he tried to visualize it. I found his naivety to be so damn cute.
"I can give you a demonstration if you really want to know."
"Right here?"
"Sure. Get on your hands and knees," I suggested.
He laughed and shook his head. "Is this like a prank? Are you recording a video on your phone or something?"
"No way. I wouldn't do that to you. Just get on the floor, and I'll explain how it works."
He took a spot on the floor, butt high in the air, and arms flexing as he flattened his palms on the linoleum. Looking over his shoulder at me, he asked, "Am I doing it right?"
"Yeah, that's the position. Now imagine the machine is behind you. The arm of it is going to glide forward with a dildo secured at the end, and that's going into your ass. Then it will pull back and repeat the motion. You can set the speed of it and also adjust the angle."
"So, you can do it on your back too?"
I crossed one leg in front of the other, trying to conceal my raging hard-on as I admired his spread bottom. "Yeah, there are all sorts of ways you can position it. We have some padded furniture too, so you can mount yourself into whatever position you like. There are also some hand-held versions. We offer a variety for guests. They rent them by the hour."
The mental imagery must have been getting to Morris because he abruptly stood and covered his lap with his clipboard. "Okay, well, thanks for explaining that. Have a nice day now." And he was out the door in the blink of an eye.
It was the first time I wondered if Morris and I played for the same team. He always came across as your typical straight dude; aloof, and a little bit embarrassed to be delivering a box of butt plugs to a bathhouse. But I began to question whether his aloofness was just shyness in disguise.
Two days later, he showed up again in his big brown chariot.
I was sitting at the counter, inspecting a new style of chastity device that the owner was thinking about selling to our customers.
When Morris approached the counter, his eyes were darting all around to avoid meeting my gaze. He cleared his throat. "I understand you have a pick-up request?"
"Yes," I said, collecting the small box from under the table. "Turns out the motor on that fuck machine got damaged after all."