Brock Samson puffs upon his cigarette as his fists pound into the well-lubricated ass of his employer. No matter how many years he’s been doing this, he still thinks he really doesn’t get paid enough for this crap. His fist goes faster and faster as he keeps shoving deeper and deeper into Doc’s clinging ass, both eyes on the doorway as he double-checked to make sure Hank and Dean didn’t need them for some non-emergency.
“I think you’re…getting…that itch!” Doc encouraged him, arching his hips up wildly into Brock’s swing.
“Uh,” Brock remarked. “Doc do you need a towel or something?”
“Oh no, don’t you dare stop the music! That itch is…almost gone!” He strains upward and then backward; then he shudders and tumbles forward onto his elbows. There’s a protracted moan of relief as he stains the sheets beneath him with his scum.
Doc stretches himself out along the bed, moaning softly. Brock pulls his wrist free with a disgusted wince, still puffing away at his cigarette, letting it sedate him. Doc turns over with a grimace of his own, gives Brock a long look of envy, and then taps his fingers impatiently. It takes Brock a moment to pick up on the hint and plucks the cancer stick from between his lips and hands it to Doc with his clean hand. “Brock. Go check on the children, hmmm?” He puffs on the cigarette and choked. “And buy some nicotine patches! “ he tisks and stubs it out on the bedframe. “Filthy habit.”
Brock rolls his eyes and heads for the bathroom.