Blake Hart
patreon
Creampied the Server
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 20:00:05 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
I wanted to go home. That’s all I thought about when I stumbled into the diner, a bed, four walls, silence. The graveyard shift will grind you down to nothing: twelve hours standing guard at an empty lot, watching monitors that never change, drinking coffee that tastes like wet cardboard. By the time the sun threatens the horizon, you’re a zombie.
The bell over the door gives a tired little ding when I push through. Fluorescent light stabs my eyes, just like in the office. The air smells like burnt sugar and fryer grease, faintly sour, like milk left out too long. I don’t even look up. Just head for a booth, drop into cracked vinyl, and shut my eyes for a second too long.
“Hey there, stranger.”
I grunt. That’s all I can manage.
A pause, “Coffee?”
I wave a hand vaguely. “Sure.”
The voice hums approval. A minute later, a mug clatters in front of me. Black coffee, sloshed half over the saucer. No apology. Just a soft chuckle that drifts away toward the counter.
I take a sip. It’s truly awful, bitter, metallic but hot enough to thaw me out. I’m halfway through the cup when I finally notice him.
The waiter.
Skinny. Young. Curly hair falling into his eyes, mouth always curved like he’s holding back a laugh. Shirt untucked, two buttons undone, name tag barely hanging on by a bent safety pin. Tim, it says. Probably not his real name.
He’s leaning against the soda fountain, watching me.
When our eyes meet, he grins like I just told a joke.
“You look like shit,” he calls.
“Thanks.”
“Long night?”
“Yeah.” I sip my coffee. “You don’t sleep?”
“Who needs it?” He saunters over, hips swaying lazily, pen tapping against his palm. Up close, I catch more details, chipped black polish on his nails, the smell of cheap vanilla body spray fighting with the fryer grease in the air. His hand lands on my shoulder as he leans in, casual but definitely deliberate.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Not really.”
He pouts exaggeratedly. “You gotta order something. Boss hates it when people loiter.”
“I’m drinking coffee.”
“Coffee doesn’t count.” His thumb strokes over my collarbone through the uniform shirt. “Come on. Pancakes? Best thing we got.”
I glance at the menu just to humor him. The picture of the pancakes looks like they’ve been sitting under a heat lamp since last Christmas.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Pancakes.”
He beams like I just proposed. “Good choice.”
They’re of course awful. Burnt on the edges, raw in the middle, syrup congealing in sticky puddles. I stab at them with my fork, more interested in the way Tim watches me eat than the food itself. He’s perched on the counter now, legs swinging, licking whipped cream off his finger like he’s bored but knows I’m looking.
“You hate them,” he teases.
“They’re… bad.”
“You could say horrid. I won’t be offended.”
“They’re horrid.”
He laughs, tipping his head back, exposing the pale line of his throat. Something in me tightens.
“You want me to show you how to make a real pancake?” I ask, surprising myself.
His eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He hops down, bounces on the balls of his feet. “Kitchen’s this way.”
The kitchen is worse than the dining room, hot, sticky, smelling of burnt oil and sugar. Metal counters cluttered with dirty plates and tubs of whipped cream.
“Okay, chef,” he says, backing toward the counter, grinning like he knows exactly where this is headed. “Show me.”
I crowd him against the metal. His breath hitches, quick and sharp.
“You want pancakes?” I whisper against his ear.
“Fuck pancakes,” he whispers back, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. “Fuck me instead.”
His shirt’s on the floor in seconds, smooth and pale chest catching the fluorescent spill. His nipples are flushed, hard. I run my tongue over one and he gasps, arching into me.
“God, you’re…” He cuts off, moaning, head falling back as I suck harder, teeth grazing.
“Say it.”
“Hot. You’re hot.” His hands fist in my hair, pulling me down, guiding me lower. “Get your mouth around my dick, come on.”
I drop to my knees, yank his jeans down just enough. His cock bounces free, pale, flushed, leaking already. Small but perfect, curved upward, trimmed dark curls at the base. He smells like sweat and fryer grease and faint vanilla. My mouth waters.
I lick him slow, from base to tip, collecting salt and precum on my tongue. He shudders, hips jerking.
“Jesus Christ,” he moans. “You’re… oh fuck”
I take him deeper, throat tight around him, spit dripping down my chin. He’s loud, whimpering, babbling nonsense, knuckles white on the counter’s edge. Every sound makes me harder.
When I pull back, his cock is slick, shining in the dim light. I spit on it, stroke once, twice, then stand, kissing him hard. He tastes like sugar and salt and something sharp, teeth clashing against mine.
“Your turn,” I growl.
He drops to his knees without hesitation, eyes glinting up at me like a challenge. He pulls my cock out fast, no teasing and his mouth is on me, wet heat, tongue swirling under the cock head. My head tips back.
“Fuck, Tim.”
“Not my name,” he mumbles around me.
“Don’t care.”
He laughs, choking on it, gagging himself deeper. The wet sound echoes in the empty kitchen. His hands grip my thighs, nails digging crescents into my skin.
“Enough,” I grunt, pulling him up. “Turn around.”
He obeys instantly, palms flat on the cold counter out front, I don’t care, his ass out, so tempting. His jeans are halfway down, pink underwear bunched at his thighs. I slap him once, hard enough to make him yelp and laugh all at once.
“Filthy,” I mutter.
He reaches into his pocket, grabs something small and pink, throws it at me.
I grab it, strawberry scented lube, cheap and slick my fingers. One push inside his tight hole, two, he’s gasping, rocking back onto them eagerly.
“God, yes,” he moans. “Been hard since you walked in.”
I line up and sink into the tight ass hole slow, inch by inch. He’s so hot, sucking my manhood in like he was made for it.
“Fucking hell,” I growl, burying myself deep.
“Move,” he begs. “Please, move.”
I do. Hard and fast. The sound of skin on skin fills the kitchen, loud, sloppy. His breath fogs the metal counter.
“You’re insane,” I mutter, slamming into him.
“Love it,” he whines. “Harder.”
I thrust harder. His moans turn frantic, high-pitched, echoing off tile. He jerks himself furiously, hips slamming back to meet mine.
“Gonna fuck gonna cum” he gasps.
“Do it,” I growl, pounding into him. “Aim for the cupcake.”
He lets out a broken laugh that turns into a cry, shooting hard, white streaks painting the cupcake and splattering the counter. His whole body trembles under me, legs shaking as he jerks through it.
I don’t stop, keep driving into him, sweaty balls slapping wet against his ass, heat building tight and fast in my gut.
“Now cum in me, Daddy,” he croaks, voice wrecked, needy. “Fill me up.”
The sight and his plea nearly undo me, I grab his hips, bury my bursting erection deep, and fill him, depositing my seed deep inside, a loud groan, chest pressed to his sweaty back, everything wet and sticky between us.
We freeze.
“Shit,” he whispers as we see someone approaching the diner, fortunately too caught up in his phone to notice us.
We scramble, buttons, belts, wiping frosting off his cheek. I grab the cupcake on impulse, sticky with his mess, and shove it into my hand like a prize. He wipes the counter frantically with a rag that only smears things worse.
The bell rings, a new guy’s standing at the door, tall, annoyingly handsome.
I slap a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, cupcake in hand, looking at the new customer. “Pancakes, I recommend them,” I say, taking the cupcake Tim had covered with his own twink frosting.
“Yeah? The pancakes any good?”
I smirk. “Nah. Horrid, but the server makes up for it in other ways.”
I lick the cum off the cupcake, before continuing, “also, the cupcakes are delicious.” I wink at both of them and walk out into the dawn, sticky and smiling for the first time all night.
Comments
Devin
No wonder I love cupcakes!
