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contact | arnold/dispatch

He knows the job pretty well by now; has been doing it for nearly a year. So it’s not that he needs the guidance from Dispatch, precisely; more that he craves it. Another human voice on the line.

It was the dispatcher himself, that velvet rich voice of his issuing commands or, better yet, those infrequent moments of praise. He’s certain it’s all part of a protocol of speech, words that the man has been instructed to dollop like whipped cream on a slice of cherry pie, but he’s far into the delusion that it’s specially gifted for him alone, a concept he allows himself only once he’s home, behind closed doors.

Explicit content, 3.4k words, new 6/22/25

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Evenings are the loneliest times for Arnie.

When the staff and customers are long gone and the noises fade from boisterous chatter and bustling commerce to the hum of electrical current through the wires and the creak of metal as it contracts and expands with shifting temperatures; the sharp clack as his fingers input codes into the keyboard and the satisfied little computer beeps that almost sound amused by his repairs.

He knows the job pretty well by now; has been doing it for nearly a year. So it’s not that he needs the guidance from Dispatch, precisely; more that he craves it. Another human voice on the line. Something to counteract all these lifeless alloys and circuits and cables. But that’s not quite all there is to it; at least, not anymore. Intially, maybe, it had been the companionship in general he’d desired. Then at some point that had shifted. It was the dispatcher himself, that velvet rich voice of his issuing commands or, better yet, those infrequent moments of praise. He’s certain it’s all part of a protocol of speech, words that the man has been instructed to dollop like whipped cream on a slice of cherry pie, but he’s far into the delusion that it’s specially gifted for him alone, a concept he allows himself only once he’s home, behind closed doors.

His eyes flick more than once to the communication console, hopeful he’s missed the light signaling Fazbear Entertainment’s lead operator was attempting to speak with him, perhaps when he’d left the security office to head for the vending machines. The remains of that snack are seated beside his right elbow: a can of Fizzy Faz Cola that’s long since lost its chill, and the crumpled wrapper of a Chica Crunch Bar, some of the chocolate still melted onto the silver lining, one forgotten remnant of puffed rice tucked beneath the seam. It’s warm inside the office; the electronics generate a tremendous amount of heat. Other parts of the facility are air conditioned, the patrons well taken care of, but he doesn’t have access to such luxuries. There’s only a desk fan that does little to circulate the stale air inside the office. He wishes he could shrug out of his required coveralls; the top portion, at least. It’s not like anyone would see him clad in the white tank beneath.

But it’s company policy to wear the uniform, and Arnie follows it to the letter, no matter how much it might be detrimental to his own well-being. Case in point, he’s closing on hour thirty six of this current shift. Numerous other technicians have come and gone before him, declaring the task load unreasonable and the overtime monstrous, but he doesn’t complain; at least, not too loudly. The few times he had dared voice a contrary opinion had been met with some very, very thinly veiled threats to terminate his employment without a reference. So he’s gone quiet. A quiet man working in the quiet evening hours. He thinks his eyes must be quite bloodshot by now. He can feel the weight of weariness pressing on his eyelids, his body demanding rest. He nearly dozes off a few times, jerking himself straighter in the swivel chair to find alertness, silently chiding himself for slacking. The sooner he gets this done, the sooner he can go home.

And what waits for him at home? Not much. Whom, you might also ask? No one. Arnie lives alone in a one bedroom apartment in a section of town that’s questionable at best. The kind of place you don’t really want to be caught walking the streets after dark unless you want to part ways with your wallet. Deadbolts are a must. He doesn’t have much to his name in the way of possessions, nothing of any significant quality or value, but that doesn’t mean he wants them stolen, either. He keeps telling himself it’s only temporary. He’ll keep saving up all this overtime and put it towards a nicer place someday. Someday: that distant shining beacon of promise, eternally guiding him forward.

The lie is easier to swallow at certain times; terribly transparent at others. Right now he’s simply too exhausted to care. He’s got an unmade twin bed waiting for him. He doesn’t think he’ll even waste time showering when he gets back, just drop face first onto the pillow and let the blissful oblivion of slumber overtake him.

At last he finishes his work, tossing his tools back into the case and clearing the desk, making sure to dispose of the remains of his meal in the wastebin. He slaps the light switch on the way out the door, dimming the interior of the office as he exits. It’s a decent length walk back to the company van parked at the rear entrance; the building is quite large. But he’s got a little pep in his step now, buoyed up by the knowledge that he’s almost free, his shift finally over.

For one heart stopping moment he almost thinks he’s forgotten the keys to the Fazbear Entertainment work van in the office as he settles behind the wheel, but a further pat down and rummage reveals they’ve worked themselves deep into one of his pockets, poking through a new hole beginning to unravel at the seam. He’ll have to take care of that later. Damages to company property mean fines. Deductions in pay. He certainly doesn’t want that. It’s why he takes such good care of the van, making sure to keep up with the maintenance. Regular oil changes. Balanced tire pressures. A routine thorough cleaning inside and out. It was about due for the latter, now that he thinks of it.

The vehicle engine rumbles to life as he turns the key in the ignition. He adjusts the rearview mirror, necessary with his current slouched position. He can’t quite find the energy to adjust his posture, the newfound burst that had initially fueled his egress already dissipated from his trek to the van. Now he just needs to keep his eyes on the road. There won’t be a lot of traffic at this late hour, but the path winds quite a bit, snaking back and forth before finally straightening once he leaves the establishment far behind. He turns on the radio, met with a burst of static before he finds a clear signal, a contemporary rock tune with lots of electric guitar and thumping drums. Not his taste, but it will help keep him awake.

Dispatch’s voice suddenly cuts through the song’s chorus and he hurriedly fumbles to shut the radio off.

“Arnie, are you there?”

“Yes,” he croaks, his throat dry. He clears it and tries again. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Did you finish up that job yet?”

“Yes, I just left. I’m done for the evening.”

“Good. I’ve had the Uppers breathing down my neck.” Uppers was a shortened form of Upper Management, a term used by those lower on the totem pole to address their superiors. Despite the large divides between employees, this was one that most were united on: a collective sort of deference that sat on the border between dislike and grudging respect.

“There were a few hiccups along the way, but I got them all sorted out.”

“Good job. I knew you could do it.”

Arnold squirms in his seat a little at the praise. It cascades over his skin, warm and pleasant. The man’s voice was appealing to begin with, but when it was combined with words like these…the technician shifts behind the wheel again. He’s never met the dispatcher in person, leading him to wonder just what that face on the other end of the line might look like. Clean shaven? Intense eyes? A strong jaw and sharp cheekbones? Tidy side-parted hair with perhaps just a single strand out of place, dripping down over his forehead, begging to be brushed back?

Oh, Arnie. You really are losing it.

He’s struggled with this one sided sort of crush for awhile now. He’s not even sure how it had started; it had just dawned on him one day after he’d gotten home, standing beneath the spray of the shower. He likes the voice. He likes imagining who might be making those sounds, but he also likes the mystery of it. The versatility. Dispatch can be anyone. Anything he wants, in the privacy of his thoughts. His desires. The first time he works up the nerve to rub one out thinking about him, replaying their earlier conversation in his mind, he comes so hard he has to rest his forehead against the side of the shower stall, his chest heaving. He’d been feeling a little guilty afterwards, especially the next time they’d spoken, but that shame had quickly been erased by a fresh wave of lust. He’s painted that shower wall more than a few times since then. His fist and belly while lying in bed. He doesn’t even know the man’s name, only his title, so that’s the one he pants and moans and curses as he comes undone.

His cock shifts at the memories now, straining against the seam of his work pants. One hand moves off the wheel and squeezes firmly, trying to calm that nagging need. Not in the work truck. He can’t. They’re not monitored or anything, but…no. He has to wait. As soon as he gets home. With those newest lines of praise echoing in his mind.

“Arnie? You still there?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Long shift. Thirty six hours, you know…”

“You’ve got your eye on that year end bonus, I’ll bet.” There’s a bit of smug teasing in his tone. Mocking him. A paltry twenty five dollars. Hardly worth all this lost sleep.

“What? No, I…” He lets his words fade to nothingness, the half-voiced protest dying in his throat. Once Dispatch was convinced of something, there was no point in arguing. He’d never win.

“Listen, there’s some new tech you need to pick up for your next assignment.”

“Can’t I do it in the morning?” He knows how whiny he sounds. He can’t help it. The fatigue. Now this sudden demand for release. Pathetic.

“Afraid not. Uppers want you to get started on this project as soon as possible. This is a big contract, Arnie. The biggest one Fazbear Entertainment has ever had. We need our best on the job.”

Another bit of praise helps soothe his scowl over the request to return to headquarters, but it certainly does nothing to assuage that raging need below his waistline that he’s still battling.

“What is it?” He asks warily.

“A tool you’ll need to access the interior of a building. We’ve ordered some schematics from a contractor who’s gone radio silent. You need to locate them and deliver them back to us ASAP.”

The technician blinks, peering at the display on his wristwatch. It’s so late. He still doesn’t understand why he needs to go right now. Surely the company doesn't expect him to continue working without a break?

“I’m sorry, I just don’t think it’s safe for me to keep working right now. Let me get a few hours’ rest and then I’ll—”

The dispatcher’s tone loses its friendly demeanor instantly. “—Perhaps you’ve misunderstood me. This isn’t a request. It’s an order. Return to HQ.”

“But I—”

“—Now, Arnie. I’ll be delivering the device personally into your hands, so you’d better not keep me waiting.”

He swallows thickly. Wait. Did Dispatch really just say they’d be meeting in person? Face to face?

“Confirm you’re going to follow these instructions.”

“Yeah. Yes, I’ll be there.” He can hear the nervous waver in his own voice. Suddenly his fatigue has been forgotten. His foot drops a little more weight onto the gas pedal and the van accelerates.

“Good. See you soon. Garage twelve. Dispatch out.”

***

Arnie hits the remote switch to raise the garage door as he’d been instructed fifteen minutes ago, pulling inside the bay slowly. The door closes again as soon as he’s cleared it. He usually just chooses one at random to park in, whichever one is closest and has space for the van. He doesn’t think he’s ever been inside this specific one, though.

The lighting is poor; so poor as to be nearly nonexistent, in truth, the back of the garage blanketed in impenetrable darkness. He’s used to working in reduced lighting conditions, due to factors like budget saving methods after business hours or areas requiring repair to the power supply itself, but this is taking it to a whole other level. He steps out of the vehicle slowly, sliding down from the raised step to the concrete below, his work boots landing with a soft thud. Now that the headlights have been extinguished, he can see even less of his surroundings. He should have taken a flashlight with him. There’s one in the center console. Another in the glovebox and several in the back with the other tools. He could still retrieve one, of course, but that means wasting more time. Further delaying this impromptu meeting. So he takes a step forward instead, in the direction of where he assumes a door leading to the inside of the building must be, straight ahead, deeper into that shadowed void, leaving the barely illuminated fluorescents overhead behind.

“Arnie.”

He stops walking immediately, his breath hitching. The size of the garage makes sound travel deceivingly. Dispatch might be some distance away. Or he might be right beside him. It’s impossible to discern with any sense of accuracy.

“Yes?” So loud. Too loud. Clumsy. Not like that dulcet satin that spills from the other man’s lips, coiling around him. His body aches from exhaustion; from dire want.

“Don’t move.”

“Okay.” He closes his eyes. They’re useless anyway. He can’t see anything.

“You got here quickly. Didn’t obey the speed limit, did you?” Oh, he sounds so close. “Wouldn’t do to incur a speeding fine for F.E., would it? Then we’d have to dock your wages. A real tragedy, when you’ve been working so hard.” The last word makes him whimper, a pitiful high pitched keen.

Arnie licks his lips, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. “You said to get here as soon as possible.”

“That’s right, I did, didn’t I? And you obeyed every instruction. Just like you always do. Such a reliable employee. Faithful. Loyal. Like a dog…”

He hears footsteps then, a sharp click of what might be dress shoes against the concrete flooring, followed by the sound of something being set down, a slight click reminiscent of the handle of an attaché case falling to one side. He sucks in a sharp gasp of air, trying to brace himself, but it’s woefully insufficient. A hand curls into the buttoned coveralls over his chest, grabbing and pushing him until his back collides with one of the cement supports of the parking garage bay. His breath leaves his body in a rush. Contact, at last. Touch. That same hand now snaking down to his crotch, an appreciative little hiss escaping Dispatch’s lips before he crushes them against Arnie’s.

We must be nearly the same height, he thinks absently. The other man doesn’t seem to need to adjust much, their faces aligning smoothly. Clean shaven. He’d been right about that assumption. Full lips. Wet. God, so warm and wet. He drinks from them greedily. Melts into them. He knows his own cheeks are covered with scratchy new growth, the result of that overlong shift. But none of that matters now. He reaches tentatively to touch the other man’s cheeks, stroking past sideburns into hair that’s soft and silky. His own lies in greasy clumps. How wretched he must feel against this sublimely smooth, polished creature.

Yet Dispatch doesn’t seem daunted by Arnie’s disheveled appearance at all. He’s worked open the front of those coveralls with expert precision, diving beneath his briefs to stroke at his leaking cock, smoothing the precum slick over the crown and frenulum, his answering moan echoing loudly in the garage.

“How long have you been stroking yourself thinking about me, hmmm?”

Arnie doesn’t answer. He’s got a mouthful of the man’s dress shirt saturated in cologne stuffed in his mouth as he sinks his teeth into the space between his neck and shoulder, earning a raspy little sigh from the other employee. He smells divine, like he’s just stepped out of the shower. Clean. Fragrant. Notes of citrus and sandalwood. He tightens his fingers in his hair and tugs, painting a line across the arch of the man’s throat with his tongue. A louder sigh this time. He wants to hear more. He wants to know every sweet sound that sinful mouth can produce. Hardly believing his daring, he’s worked up the courage to caress the front of the dispatcher’s trousers. Scratches his nails along the seam, scraping along the bulge beneath it. Another hiss of pleasure.

“How long, Arnie? You still haven’t answered my question. How long…?”

“Weeks. Months. I don’t know,” he confesses, working his lips along the man’s jaw while he tugs on his zipper. “Is there even a device to pick up? Or did you just want…”

A soft chuckle tickles his cheek. “Oh, yes, there is. That’s wasn’t a ruse. You’re going to start that job right after you finish this one. Fuck,” he curses when the technician finally manages to pull his cock free. His hips lurch forward, bringing him closer to the other man’s erection he hasn’t ceased pumping since this encounter began. There’s an awkward collision of fingers and slickened dicks and then oh, they’re pressed together just right, two hot columns of aroused flesh lined up, encircled with alternating cages of first Dispatch’s fingers, then Arnie’s.

The technician feels like he could bust at any moment, but as much as he craves release, he doesn’t want this to end, so he grits his teeth, sucks and worries at Dispatch’s bottom lip, then the thumb of the free hand slotted into his mouth, lapping at the pad and curling around the digit, moving his head back and forth, applying more and more suction. His cock throbs, recognizing these movements, craving the same to be done to it. He wouldn’t last long on the other’s man tongue; not when he’d be whispering filth to him while sucking him off, that voice, that fucking angelic, demonic, rapturous tone huffed against his body, teasing and cajoling and wrenching the orgasm from his body. God, he’s so close right now, he doesn’t think he can take much more…

“Cum for me Arnie. Cum…Good job. Oh, well done, Arnie. That’s it. Just like that…”

A surge of heat pools in his spine before his balls tighten and he erupts over the man’s fingers, then his own, a breathy groan the only warning before he feels another load spilling over his still twitching cock.

Eventually the two men’s hands still. He wipes his off on his briefs, then fumbles to close the coveralls. A rustle of clothing indicates the other man is doing the same. Arnie isn’t sure what to do now. What to say. He needs guidance.

“I have to put the security cameras back on. Raise the lights,” Dispatch murmurs against his ear. So that’s why it was so dark. He should have figured that out sooner. But he’s tired. Not quite thinking clearly. If he’d thought himself exhausted before, he’s bone weary now post-orgasm.

He feels something pressed against his chest. His fingers curl around the edges. Rectangular. A case of some sort.

“There’s a device inside of here called a Data Diver. Take special care of this, Arnie. There isn’t another like it.”

“How do I use it?”

“I’ll issue you specific instructions once you get there.”

“Where is there?”

“That’s right, I haven’t told you yet. Murray’s Costume Manor. You’re familiar with it?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it.” It was a large factory and showroom that manufactured and displayed animatronics and other assorted high tech products. He can’t imagine what’s so important that it necessitates him going there in the middle of the night.

“Head on over there now. I’ll be in touch shortly.”

“But I…”

“Don’t think, Arnie. Just do. That’s what you’re good at.” Dispatch’s warm breath briefly caresses his stubbled cheek, then vanishes, the sounds of his footsteps receding.

He’s alone once more.

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