This is a true-blue collar tale…
My name is DeAndre Hill and I never thought labor unions would end up a true thorn in the side of corporate managers in SoCal.
Having grown up in Southern California, I had seen what unions could do when they grew nasty. My friendly boss Norberto had been sequestered in his office for 26 hours—meaning he had been confined to his desk and surrounded by slogan-shouting mobs of workers. He had not been given food or drink, no phone call and not even a trip to the fucking toilet. Finally, he had collapsed at his desk and was rescued by a protesting worker who actually had a heart.
So, when I started my first job as an engineer trainee in a consumer durable factory in Irvine, near the Amphitheater, I was curious to know, firsthand, how unions should be handled.
I developed a strong animosity against a shift supervisor – Kolby Stalsberg – a fellow third generation Southern Californian. He had one curious trait. Whereas the other shift supervisors tolerated working the night shift (10pm to 8am), Kolby resented it. On this shift, he was the only boss on the factory premises. As most of the ‘shops’ (sections of the factory, e.g., press shop, machine shop, etc) would be closed at night and only a few would be working, one shift supervisor was considered to be sufficient for the whole factory.
Kolby was a handsome twenty-six year-old with ginger hair, almost chiseled features and emerald green eyes. He was slender, yet muscular. he was also fair-skinned with big feet. Those dogs were size 13 or larger, and I found myself looking at his long muscular body with a sculpturer’s eye. He was a walking piece of classical art.
He was also an arrogant mutha fucka.
He thought he was too good to be on the night shift. If you asked him he’d say some shit like, “Oh, no… no, DeAndre … I don’t have anything against … this. It’s just that sleeping during the day and working at night increases your risk of obesity and other ailments…”
Yeah, that’s what he’d say, but we all know that true haters are generally cowards who won't directly say what they believe. I didn’t like the guy. I myself was a tall, but not too slender drink of water. Black hair, brown eyes, long arms and hammy fists that were known to beat adverdaries as if they were Hitler pinatas at Bar Mitzvahs.
Anyway, Kolby and I got into an altercation about how I was doing my job. I turned to make my way to the restroom when I heard what sounded like a well-known slur. On instinct I turned around and swung a roundhouse punch. Kolby bent backwards, just in time to feel my knuckles swish past his nose. He thought he had the advantage because I’d missed him, but I was a lot faster than he was, and before he could take advantage of the situation, I rebounded and gave him an uppercut to the jaw. Immediately I felt terrible because he instantly got this weird, dazed look in his emerald-green eyes… like a fading light.
I thought he was going to say something, like “You hit like a bitch”. Instead, his green eyes rolled up into his head, his body went limp and he collapsed to the floor. He was out cold.
Turning on autopilot, I looked down at Kolby--glad to see that he wasn’t turning blue or some shit. I rolled him over, checked for breathing, and I was about to thump his chest as I looked around for someone to help … or who might have been a witness, you know? I was relieved to see that he was regaining consciousness… but then he passed out again!
But I got it in my head that he was faking now. In my mind, he was so embarrassed at having been knocked the fuck out that he would rather pretend to still be unconscious… rather than face the guy who put out his lights.
I have to admit that he looked even cuter when pretending to be out cold. In fact he looked ten years younger now … like a teenager. Was he really knocked out?? I mean, could faking unconsciousness cause someone to look younger? I didn’t know. But I had an idea. I went down to his dress-shoe clad feet and worked my way up his legs to his thighs. Probing. The bulge in his slacks made SEVERAL things obvious to me, if you know what I mean.
The ginger-haired jerk even "unconsciously" spread his legs apart to allow me better access to that bulge. But I wasn’t as interested in his penis as I was in his feet.
I untied and took off Kolby’s shoes and the smell of his black socks pretty much instantly hit me—and it wasn't a bad smell to someone with a fetish like mine. No, the smell of the shift-supervisor’s socks stimulated me to the point where my cock began to grow rock hard.
Eventually I slid those black socks off and put his now bare feet in my lap, All the while Kolby lay limp and “out of it”. I had to pause. What was I doing?? He was probably faking and, if he was, I’d reveal myself as being as big a freak as he was a jerk!
Still, I put my hands around his bare feet, feeling the sweat of them on my hands. Then I just decided in my mind that young Kolby really was out cold… and I gave into the temptation that had been rapidly building within me. I rubbed and caressed his big feet sensually. With my dislike of my co-worker, his attractiveness and my foot-fetish all combined… well I gave even more way to my urges and started kissing Kolby’s toes.
I tenderly, sensuously kissed all ten of the shift-supervisor’s digits and even darted my tongue in-between each of them to lick away sweat and sock fuzz and that indescribable fragrance. Then I began to slowly lick the soles of his feet—thoroughly tongue-bathing every inch of them. If the ginger-haired jerk was faking unconsciousness, it wouldn’t have mattered because his body indicated that he was totally soothed by the experience that I was giving him. So soothed that I knew that HE KNEW that it would be best if he continued to pretend to be out cold. I swore I heard him sigh happily as I licked his soles, hungrily sucked on his toes and kissed his arches and ankles.
But when we heard co-workers approaching in the distance, Kolby and I both came to our senses.
In a rush we tried our best to clean ourselves up. At first the shift-supervising jerk seemed like he was going to continue with the charade and continue to fake being out of it. But, in the end, reason ruled the day ... and he found himself scrambling to put his socks and shoes back onto his big saliva-slicked feet… while I tried like hell of get my diamond-hard penis to return to a less noticeable size in my pants!
As we rushed to make ourselves more presentable to whomever was going to join us in that stock room, Kolby and I looked at each other and, though we were in a panic, couldn’t help nervously laughing. What had happened between us was just so INSANE! And now that some VERY intimate secrets had been providentially revealed, would something of this nature happen again?
To be continued…
