Mopping is my favorite part of the job. There’s something satisfying about cleaning up all the stickiness and filth that has accumulated on the cafe floor over the course of the day. We’re supposed to dim the lights when we’re closing, but I never do; I love seeing the floor gleam once I’m done.
I dump the water and put the cleaning supplies back in the closet, then hang up my apron and clock out. My bike is out back, so I use the back entrance, dimming the lights at last and locking the door behind me. I check my watch. It’s 10:15, a little later than usual. I’m eager to get home to my cats, and to the book I’ve been reading, the latest release in my favorite fantasy series.
As I’m unlocking my bike in the back alley, I hear a slam. “Shit,” someone says. I turn toward the source, squinting. There’s someone over by the dumpster for the local pizza place, holding a box of pizza in one hand and rubbing their head with the other. There are several more pizza boxes on the ground next to them. I surmise that the dumpster lid must have hit them as they were claiming their prize.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen someone digging through the dumpsters out back. Sometimes it’s middle-aged men with scraggly beards and scarred hands. Sometimes it’s local teenagers with weird hair. Once, on a cold night last winter, it was an elderly woman who looked like my grandmother and apologized when she saw me. She was shaking in the cold. I brought a sweater from home the next day to give to her, but I never saw her again.
I look over this newcomer, who doesn’t appear to have spotted me and has returned to digging through the dumpster. They’re skinny and androgynous, clothed in a ratty grey sweatshirt, black skinny jeans, and a worn out pair of converse. The sweatshirt has a patch on the back that says T.R.E.A.M., with a poorly-executed drawing of Oscar the Grouch. Their hair is a dark brown. I sidle over.
“Anything good?” I ask. They spin around, grey eyes wide. I take in their gaunt cheeks and the anemic bruising on their hands and neck. Seeing my look of sympathy, they relax.
“Pepperoni. Cheese. I’m hoping for a Veggie,” they respond. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, they offer me a box. “Want some?” Their smile is shy.
“Sure, I’ll take a few slices,” I say. “Want to head inside where it’s a little less chilly? I work at the cafe.” I nod toward the back door.
Wordlessly, they pick up their pizza boxes and follow me, slinging a backpack over one shoulder. I unlock and place my own bag on a chair. As they put the boxes on a table, I notice a nasty cut all along the back of their left hand, glistening with blood.
“You’re hurt,” I say.
“Not really. It’s fine.”
“You were just in a dumpster. Aren’t you worried about it getting infected?” I ask.
“I mean, yeah, but what are you going to do? It’s not hospital-worthy, and even if it were, I don’t have the money.”
“I’ve got a first aid kit in back. I could at least clean it up for you. Is that okay?”
They nod and sit down, and I grab the kit and some gloves. Standing over the table they’ve chosen, I get to work. The wound cleans quickly, but the bleeding hasn’t fully stopped. I bandage their hand up, but I’m still concerned for them as I pull my gloves off.
“Hey,” they say from their chair, “don’t worry. I’ll be okay. And thank you.” They take my hand and bring it to their lips. It’s casually executed, but I feel color rise to my cheeks. They drop my hand. “Sorry. It’s an old habit. You look like someone I used to know.”
“I don’t mind.”
There’s silence between us for a minute. Then they look up at me. “Hey. Can I kiss you?”
“I’d enjoy that,” I reply quietly. I lean down and put my hand to their cheek, tilting their face up toward me. Our lips meet. As we kiss, I start to smile. I can’t help it. I’m caught up in a rush of happiness. Their tongue brushes mine, exploring, playfully flicking my own and darting back. I cradle the back of their head. I’m leaning over them now, the table pushed aside, caught up in the dizzying pleasure of kissing this beautiful, fragile person who has entered my life so unexpectedly. I run my fingers through their hair, then start to grip, pulling gently at first. “Is this okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” they breathe, and now they’re kissing my neck and I’m pulling harder. “Fuck,” I hear them exhale. Tentatively I move to straddle them and they grab the back of my thigh, pulling me on top of them. They slide their hand under the front of my shirt and press against my nipples with their thumb. Now my shirt is off and their mouth is on my nipples directly, sucking desperately. I sigh with pleasure, then gently push their shoulder, and their lips leave my chest. I kiss their forehead affectionately and reach my hand down; they let out a sharp breath, then close their eyes and lean back. Slowly, teasingly, I unzip their jeans, then carefully pull down their pants and underwear, letting them fall to the floor. My mouth works its way down their body, pausing at their nipples. I start with kisses, then probing nibbles, then a slow, gentle bite that produces a moan from them. I smile cruelly, then move my mouth to the side of their body, biting them there, hard enough to bruise. My tongue trails back to the center of their torso, then down past their navel, and suddenly I’m tasting them, rewarding them with more pleasure the more they moan. They’re panting now, but between breaths they manage to ask, “Can — I — do — anything — for — you..?”
I pause, removing my mouth so suddenly it makes them gasp. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To do something for me?” I trail a finger casually between their legs as I pose the question.
“Yes, oh please, let me do something for you!” They’re whimpering, begging me, and I find myself tempted to give in. I weigh the question for a minute.
“No,” I reply finally. “Maybe next time, if you’re good, and if you come for me tonight.” They give a sharp breath, as if what I say excites them. My mouth returns authoritatively to its previous position. As I lick and suck and consume, their abdomen tightens and they let out a short gasp. I keep going.
Their back arches and a yell escapes their lips. “Ohhh FUCK…”
Slowly, I get up and embrace them, pulling them against me and stroking their dark brown hair. We stay together like that for some time, exchanging kisses and body heat.
The floor is sticky again; more mopping for me. But I don’t mind.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/fub4il/closing_shift_or_the_dumpster_diver_queer_nbnb
holy shit this is incredible, well written, queer as hell, I’m speechless