Crated up

It was a hot summer day, and you and your friends decided to head down to the harbor for a swim.

It was a private harbor, but nobody was ever there during the day, so none of you really cared.

As evening approached, the workers started arriving. The harbor woke from its lazy slumber in the sun. The tarmac and shipping containers scorched beneath the blazing heat. Engines roared to life around the lot. Cranes began lifting cargo, wheels started turning in preparation for the night shift. Yellow hard hats and neon vests scurried through the maze of containers like worker ants.

You and your friends spent the whole day swimming, listening to music, and drinking a few beers. Somewhere along the way, you lost track of time.

Then panic broke out.

If security caught you here, they’d probably call the police.

Everyone scattered instantly. Friends grabbed whatever clothes and belongings they could carry, with no time to properly get dressed.

Bare feet pounded against the burning tarmac. You barely felt the heat — adrenaline drowned it out completely.

You were always a bit overweight. Slow. Your friends were faster.

They vaulted the fences in seconds and disappeared into the surrounding woods almost immediately.

You chased after them as fast as you could, but suddenly slammed into a shipping crate. Your swim trunks snagged on a jagged nail protruding from the metal.

RIIIP.

The fabric tore away completely.

Your pale bare ass glistened in the evening sun as you instinctively covered your small penis with both hands.

Voices echoed nearby.

Getting closer.

You looked around desperately for somewhere to hide.

Then you saw it.

An open crate.

Rough wooden boards. Black lettering stamped across the side, faded from age and seawater.

You don’t have time to read what it says.

You just need somewhere to hide.