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By *c8484 OP Man
2 weeks ago
Dunfermline |
Glen stepped into the dimly lit lobby of the old cinema, the faint scent of popcorn and stale carpet overwhelming. At 22, fresh out of university with a degree in graphic design, he was desperate for any job that paid more than minimum wage. Part-time usher at the local indie cinema wasn't glamorous, but it beat flipping burgers. His manager, Chris, a burly guy in his late fifties with a salt-and-pepper beard and a uniform that strained against his broad chest clapped him on the back as they started the tour.
"Welcome aboard, kid," Chris said, his voice gravelly from years of shouting over movie noise. "This place is a relic, you won’t find cinemas like this these days. I'll show you the ropes, lobby, concessions, then the screens. Oh, and heads up: we've got a couple of regulars, two old timers who treat this joint like their private gentleman’s club. You know... for quiet time." Chris winked, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Wink wink. Just ignore 'em if you catch 'em at it."
Glen chuckled nervously, unsure if Chris was serious or if this was some trick they played on the new guy. They weaved through the empty aisles of screening rooms, the hum of projectors vibrating the walls. Chris pointed out emergency exits, the snack bar protocols, and how to handle rowdy teens. Finally, they climbed a creaky staircase to the projection room overlooking Screen 3, where a rom-com flickered below, casting shadows on a near empty audience.
"This is where the magic happens," Chris said, flipping on the dim overhead light. The room was cramped, filled with dusty equipment and reels stacked like forgotten artifacts. He gestured to the small window overlooking the theater. "Film's running smooth. Take a peek, see how it all lines up."
Glen leaned forward, peering through the glass. The screen glowed with actors mid-kiss, but his eyes drifted to the back row. There, in the shadows, two elderly men, probably in their seventies, with white hair and wrinkled faces, sat close together. One had his hand buried in the other's lap, the motion unmistakable. Glen's face reddened as he watched the second man mirror the action, their arms pumping steadily under unzipped flies.
"See? Told ya," Chris murmured, standing right behind him. "Old geezers like Harry and Bert. Been coming here for decades. They think no one notices, but from up here? Crystal clear. Rubbing each other's cocks like nobody’s around. Harmless, really. Keeps the place lively."
Down below, Harold, the one with the thicker glasses, tilted his head back slightly, his free hand gripping the armrest as Bert's fist worked his exposed dick, veiny and thick despite the age. Bert's own cock jutted out, slick with precum, as Harold stroked it with slow, deliberate pulls. The wet sounds were faint but audible even over the movie dialogue, their grunts lost in the soundtrack.
Glen felt a flush creep up his neck, his own jeans tightening uncomfortably. He'd fooled around with guys at uni, sure, but this voyeuristic glimpse hit different, raw, unfiltered, right there in public.
Suddenly, Chris's radio crackled to life. "Chris, we got a problem in Screen 1—projector's jammed, crowd's pissed!"
Chris cursed under his breath, clipping the device back to his belt. "Shit. Alright, Glen, you're on your own for a bit. Just monitor this one. If the film stops, yell down the intercom or run for help. Don't touch anything else. I'll be back soon."
With a quick pat on Glen's shoulder, Chris bolted out the door, his footsteps echoing down the stairs.
Alone now, Glen tried to focus on the movie. The leads were arguing on screen, but his gaze kept sliding back to the window. Harold had leaned over, his mouth hovering near Bert's ear, whispering something that made the other man buck his hips. Bert's hand sped up, fingers slick as they slid over the swollen head of Harold's cock, drawing out a bead of precum that glistened in the projected light.
Glen's heart pounded. He shifted in place, the bulge in his jeans throbbing insistently. Fuck it, he thought, glancing at the door. No one around. His fingers trembled as he unbuckled his belt, the zipper rasping loudly in the quiet room. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his hardening cock. He licked his palm before wrapping his hand around the shaft, he gave it a slow stroke, eyes locked on the scene below.
Harold had fully unzipped now, his cock standing rigid as Bert jacked him off with firm, twisting motions. Bert's dick twitched in Harold's grip, the older man's thumb circling the tip before plunging back down the length. They were lost in it, oblivious to the world, their exhibitionist display fueling Glen's strokes. He matched their rhythm, fist pumping faster, breath coming in short gasps as heat built in his balls.
The door creaked open behind him.
"Glen, how's it…….what the…."
Chris's voice cut through the air like a knife.
Chris froze in the doorway, his eyes widening as they locked onto Glen's exposed cock, fist still wrapped around the base in mid-stroke. The manager's face flushed a deep red, a mix of shock and something else flickering in his gaze.
He stammered, hand gripping the doorframe. "What the….Glen? Shit, I... I didn't mean to..." His voice trailed off, embarrassment twisting his features, but he didn't look away. Instead, his stare lingered on Glen's throbbing shaft, the way it pulsed in the dim light.
Glen's heart slammed against his ribs. Panic surged through him as he yanked his hand away, fumbling desperately with his zipper. The metal teeth caught on fabric, refusing to cooperate, his cock bobbing free and slick against his thigh. "Fuck, Chris, I…sorry, I didn't hear you. Just... the guys down there, it was..." He twisted awkwardly, trying to tuck himself back in, cheeks burning with humiliation.
But Chris didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a soft click. His breath came quicker now, the initial shock melting into a hungry embarrassment that made his jeans bulge noticeably. He grabbed a rickety folding chair from the corner, unfolding it with a metallic scrape and positioning it right in front of Glen. Dropping into it heavily, Chris leaned forward, elbows on knees, his eyes darting between Glen's half-zipped jeans and the window where Harold and Bert continued their mutual handjob below—oblivious, cocks sliding in firm grips, grunts punctuating the film score.
"Keep going," Chris muttered, voice low. His own hand hovered near his belt, fingers twitching. "Don't stop on my account. Those old fucks got you worked up? Hell, they've got that effect.
Just... pretend I'm not here. Or... whatever."
Glen hesitated, zipper still jammed, his dick aching for attention. Chris's proximity, the heat radiating from his body, the bulge straining his jeans, made resistance futile. Swallowing hard, Glen abandoned the zipper and gripped his cock again, resuming the slow pumps he'd been building to. Precum smeared over his palm, easing the glide as he watched the old men: Bert's fist twisting around Harold's veiny length, drawing out a low moan that carried faintly up.
Chris exhaled sharply, shifting in the chair. His embarrassment showed in the way he avoided eye contact at first, but his hand moved to his crotch, rubbing over the fabric. "Fuck it," he growled, unbuckling his belt with urgent tugs. The zipper rasped down, and he shoved his jeans and briefs to his knees, freeing his thick cock, uncut, heavy, already leaking from the tip. It slapped against his hairy thigh before he wrapped his callused fingers around it, giving a testing stroke that made his hips jerk.
Now, both men faced the window, acutely aware of each other. Glen's strokes quickened, matching Chris's rhythm, the manager's hand working his shaft with practiced pulls, thumb swiping over the head to spread the slickness. Down below, Harold leaned in, taking Bert's cock into his mouth for a sloppy suck, tongue lapping at the underside while his own dick leaked onto the seat.
"Jesus, look at 'em go," Chris whispered. His free hand reached out, brushing Glen's knee before pulling back, as if testing boundaries. Glen didn't flinch; instead, he spread his legs wider, jeans bunched at his ankles now, letting Chris see every inch as he jacked faster. The air thickened with their heavy breathing, the wet sounds of skin on skin echoing in the small room.
Chris's embarrassment faded into raw need, his strokes turning firmer, balls drawing up as he watched Glen's cock swell in his grip. "Yeah, like that, pump it harder," he urged, eyes finally meeting Glen's, dark with lust. Glen obliged, fist flying over his length, the pressure coiling tight in his gut. The old men's pace ramped up too—Bert thrusting into Harold's mouth, hand blurring on the older man's prick, pushing them all toward the edge.
Glen came first, a groan ripping from his throat as ropes of cum shot out, splattering his shirt and the windowsill. His body shuddered, cock pulsing in his hand, milking every drop while he stared at the scene below.
Chris followed seconds later, head thrown back against the chair. "Fuck….yes….” His dick erupted, thick spurts arcing onto his t-shirt, coating his knuckles as he wrung himself dry, hips bucking with each wave.
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