Michael, now rosy-cheeked from several shots of soju, was laughing harder than he had in a long time.  He liked it here.  His new coworkers, all just out of college like he was, urged him to flick the tin bit attached to a soju cap they were passing around as part of a game.  The two people seated next to whoever could manage to flick it completely off had to take another shot.  As he pressed his middle finger hard into his thumb and concentrated on the slim piece of metal, a plate arrived in the center of the table, placed gently down by a hand with slender fingers.  Michael followed the arm up with his eyes to see a beautiful young man; he felt his breath catch in his throat. 

“We didn’t order this,” said one of his coworkers, pointing to the plate of sliced pears on the table.  “주문 안했어요.”  “네,” replied the young man.  “서비스.”  Michael looked at the coworker, confused.  “He says it’s service,” she told him, “meaning it’s free. Sometimes that happens – part of the magic of Korea!”  This sparked a conversation around the table of unexpected appearances of service food and how you’d never see that at home. 

Michael, suddenly a bit dizzy, stood up and politely excused himself.  “Bathroom’s back there, mate,” said a coworker, pointing to a metal door next to the kitchen.  “Outside.”  Michael walked just a bit unsteadily back to the door, pushed it open, and felt grateful for the rush of clean and cold night air that surrounded him.  Better.  He spotted the bathroom; while walking toward it across a slab of wet concrete, he noticed smoke coming from the side of the small, grey building that housed a squatter and urinal.  Peering around the side, he saw the young man who’d brought them the pears, casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, smoking a long, thin cigarette. 

The man looked over at Michael – or rather, he looked Michael over.  He smiled and nodded slightly.  Mesmerized, Michael walked over to him and stood in front of him momentarily, not sure what to say, his breath now shallow and hard.  “담배?” the young man asked him, holding out his pack of cigarettes.  Michael shook his head.  His eyes dropped to the stranger’s fly, where they stayed fixed for a bit, then slowly climbed back up to meet his eyes. 

All at once they were both fumbling with his belt, his button, his zipper; Michael reached into the man’s briefs to pull out a semi-erect cock.  The flesh felt smooth against his palm; he could feel the stranger’s veins as he stroked the shaft before dropping to his knees and taking it in his mouth.  He couldn’t take it all the way back; he continued to stroke the base while getting as much of the cock into his mouth as possible, making his mouth wet with saliva as he rhythmically pushed the head past his lips, to the back of his tongue, and forth again.  The young man didn’t last long; he was he was soon groaning and pumping Michael’s mouth full of warm, salty cum.  Michael licked the last drop from the tip of his dick before standing up, holding the stranger’s face for a moment, and briefly kissing him.  The stranger eagerly kissed him back and sighed, zipping up his pants. 
Michael strode back through the door into the restaurant and sat down among his new friends.  “You okay, mate?” one of them asked.  “You were in there for a while.”  “I’m great,” he replied, his cheeks rosier than before.  Things wouldn’t be so different here.


This was inspired by the last Flash Friday prompt at F. Leonora’s site; it didn’t fit the image, but it was the first thing that came to mind when I read the word service.   

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