Chad blinked. The damn alarm went off. Snake pulled on his jeans and a fresh shirt. Then put on his boots and leather motorcycle jacket, and dashed out to his bike. After 20 minutes of bouncing up and down at Snake's motorcycle, Chad was a might sore. He wondered where Snake worked. He couldn't see much with blue jeans encasing him. Snake was walking around, and shifting his body. Chad guessed he was moving stuff around. Maybe a warehouse worker?
"Jason, put this one in room 11, and the one on the table in drawer 6," said a gruff voice.
"Sure thing, Mr. Thompson."
Thompson? Huh. Let's see the butcher at Macree's Market was named Thompson. And there was Thompson's Mortuary. But Thompson wasn't that uncommon a name, and there were dozens of warehouses down by the waterfront, any of them could have a foreman named Thompson.
Chad needed another clue, but Snake continued to move around without speaking for the next couple hours. Whatever else Jason was doing, he was using his muscles, and sweating profusely. Chad inhaled Snake's rich natural musk. Suddenly, Snake was daydreaming of Chad in that skimpy rubber parody of a football uniform. Chad blinked, he was sucked into Jason's daydream. Jason shook his head, and Chad was a jockstrap again. Hey, Snake was popping wood. Maybe he's not straight after all? Chad wondered, but he didn't really care. He just needed to get a load of cum, and get off Snake, and maybe he'd be human again?