R.G.S

R.G.S.

by Kyle Rader

 

John the Janitor studied the puddle of puke outside of Room 2C, fully erect. He leaned his chin on the handle of his mop and nodded, the sensation of the wooden handle jutting up into his soft palate only increased his arousal. His hands, rather dainty and soft for his profession, stroked the handle off as the stomach acid in the regurgitation glistened in the fluorescent light.

God, this handle is sexy.

He grunted softly under his breath as he shoveled the pinkish sawdust onto some student’s aborted lunch. The puke, the cleaning, the dust, overwhelmed him. His hard-on jutted out from underneath his grey Dickies, forming a triangular tumor that kept bumping up against his mop handle.

God, that pain was so hot.

Around the school, the  staff and students knew that there was something off about John the Janitor and steered clear of him. The way he leered at people, nodding to himself and mumbling, were more than enough to give him a wide berth. John was fine with this, their ridicule was enough for him to mess in his pants.

He would have touched the puddle of puke, dried and clumped like a day old cat turd, as touching something that used to be inside someone really cranked his shaft, but, Mr. Dooey, the algebra teacher walked out into the hallway at that very moment.

Oh boy, he almost caught me. That would have been so sexy!

Mr. Dooey, whom the students called Mr. Doughy behind his back because of his comically shaped torso, moved his eyes over John, recoiling as he processed his excited nature, then shuffled straight out of the building. John watched him as he left, nodding. The fat folds kneaded together to form a diamond-shaped stain of back-sweat. His entire body quivered in anticipation of a mind-altering orgasm.

Back-sweat does it to me every time!

The clattering of the mop handle, accompanied by John’s frenzied footsteps, echoed through the hallway. Most days, he would have been content to merely watch, letting the world arouse him to the brink, before retreating to the bowers of the boiler room, to abuse himself until his ejaculated blood.

Today was too much. The world was being far too arousing for John to take.

The A.V. closet, neglected and dusty, welcomed John with open arms. His Dickies were around his ankles the second he entered the room.

Oh, shit, Entering a room is fucking hot as fuck.

John shuffled to the window, wiped through the grime with one sleeve, while strangling his one-eyed sailor with the other. Sweat poured from his bald head and ran down his brow, beading at the ends of his wild, unruly eyebrows. In the parking lot below, a couple of seniors were necking in a parked car.

Oh, yeah. That’s nice.

The teenagers, over-eager in their grope-fest, knocked the car into gear. It rolled down the hill of the parking lot towards the entrance to the softball fields. John griped himself harder. He placed his thumb over the eye of the beast to prevent the surge of his DNA from escaping.

Sexy, sexy, sexy

The car gained momentum, speeding towards the bottom of the hill. Mr. Dooey walked across the entrance to the lot, munching away on an over-sized soft pretzel covered in mustard. He had enough time to swallow his last bite before he and the car became one. Mr. Doughy’s malleable physique was no match for several thousand pounds of metal and plastic. He fell underneath the car and became lodged within the wheel well. The car, unable to proceed past his significant carriage, skidded to a halt, leaving behind a dark trail of blood.

The seniors inside the car screamed. The spectators of the softball game joined in.

John screamed as well, but for another reason. He dropped both nuts against the grime of the AV room window, the end result resembled one of Jackson Pollack’s lesser works. He nodded and grunted under his breath, proud of his accomplishment.

Tragedy is so fucking hot.

Comments
  1. Dying! I remember this one fondly, Kyle — glad to read it again.

    Like

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