by Neil Plakcy
“Why don’t you prop your back against the headboard,” I urged. “I’d like to sit on your dick.”
Bob complied, so I anointed his cock with lubricant. Though I had touched many cocks in my lifetime, his gave me a thrill like the buzz I received when I handled my first. I almost hated to wrap it, but I tore open another extrastrength condom and unrolled it onto Bob’s cock.
My asshole was already lubed from the vibrator, so I smeared a light coat on the outside of Bob’s condom. Bob leaked a bit of precome into the condom while I stroked it with my hand.
“Are you going to sit with your back to me, or will you face me?” Bob asked.
“First with my back to you,” I said. “After a minute, you can slide your ass down the bed a bit and I’ll sit on your dick facing you.”
Bob held me as I lowered my ass onto his cock. His mighty upper body strength came in handy, for he could hold me up while I positioned my asshole on the head of his cock. When I had the right spot, he let gravity lower me onto him, and I pushed hard with my anal sphincter to open it up and let him in. Again I felt that wonderful fullness of a hard cock in my ass.
“You’re taking it all the way, Rich,” Bob assured me. I rocked forward and back, gently fucking his dick with my ass. My asshole was hot and wide open, stretched around his thick shaft.
“Oh, that’s good,” Bob moaned. “I could shoot my load this way in no time.”
“You want to?” I asked.
“No, I’d still prefer you facing me. I want to look into your eyes when I come in your ass.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “Help me raise off of it.”
In a twinkling, we had repositioned. Balancing with both hands gripping Bob’s shoulders, I slowly lowered myself toward his cock while he guided my ass. I felt his cockhead against my hot hole; then it was sliding inside again as I rode it down until my buttocks were sitting solid on his loins. His eyes were shining with delight, and through the full delightful fuck, my eyes never left his.
As I rocked to and fro on his cock, I watched Bob’s nostrils flare and his face flush with exertion. Pulling me forward so that only the tip of his cock was still inside my asshole, he brought his lips to mine and slid his tongue between them. I sucked his tongue while I rocked lightly on the head of his cock.
I felt rather than heard the keening sound rising in Bob’s throat at the same instant he began thrusting his cock upward with greater urgency. I let his tongue slip from my mouth as I slid back down his cock. Rising and falling on it, I tightened my asshole on the upstrokes and relaxed on the down.
“Oh, this is it, Rich,” Bob wailed. “Oh, yes, I’m gonna come in your ass. Oh, yeah. Here it goes, Rich. Here it goes.”
I rocked upon his cock wildly as he tried to thrust upward. I could see the wild light of orgasm in his eyes, and indeed, I was nearly ejaculating again myself. My cock was so hard and swollen that I could not resist grabbing it. Just the slight touch of my fingers on the head of my cock set me off. My second orgasm bit deeper than my first. My first had been a storm, and this was a room filled with violets. Still, I ejaculated freely, my semen splattering onto Bob’s muscular chest while he filled the condom in my ass.
After that fantastic fuck, Bob and I had to take a hot, lingering shower. When I had toweled him off, he dressed and looked out the window.
“I better get back down below,” he said reluctantly. “Those guys are slacking off. I have to watch them every instant.”
“I wonder what they think you’ve been doing?” I asked.
“Who cares what they think?” Bob said. “That was great, Rich.” So saying, he pulled me close and kissed me hard. Then without another word, he was down the stairs, and after a quick stop to pull on his shoes, he was out the door and hollering at his crew.
“Quit loafin’,” he yelled. “Them bushes ain’t gonna plant theirselves.” Watching out my window, I could only laugh.
During that summer, I seduced most of the workmen my parents had hired to remodel the house and the grounds. Roofers, wallpaper hangers, painters, stonemasons, and chimney sweeps found relief for their itchy cocks in my eager ass, enough that I cannot remember them all, if I ever knew their names. However, one I will never forget. For the rest of my days, I will remember the afternoon I diddled with Bob, the landscape guy.
DANIEL IN THE LYONS DEN
Neil Plakcy
Though my degree was in business, the only job I could get after graduation was as an assistant project manager on a new shopping center construction site. I felt like an idiot, walking around the site in a total fog. What did I know about site plans, transformers, sewage inlets? But I did know how to use Microsoft Project for scheduling, and that’s why they hired me.
I spent most of the day in a tiny office in a trailer, sitting in front of a computer plugging in variables. The form work couldn’t begin until the site was graded. The concrete pour couldn’t begin until the first set of forms was finished. The details were enough to make my head spin.
Occasionally I had to go out on-site and talk to the contractors, to find out how long the grading would take, and how the projections for rain might affect the schedule. The worst guy to talk to was the site foreman, Joe Lyons. He was a tall, sinewy guy, close to forty, with a raspy cigarette voice and a potty mouth that would make a sailor blush.
His most common greeting was “Fuck you,” to which, I learned, the correct response was “You’ll never go back to dogs.” I couldn’t say anything like that; Joe Lyons had me quaking in my Timberlands and my dick tenting my khakis. He was just the kind of guy I went for: a tough, sexy daddy with muscles and attitude.
It was always tough to mumble out my question and then, with a shaking hand, scribble down his response. Then I’d hurry back to my office, desperate to beat off in the john. But the trailer was rickety and the walls paper thin, and if you spent too long on the toilet somebody was always banging on the door accusing you of beating your meat.
It didn’t help matters that in the middle of July, most of the guys on-site were shirtless, many of them wearing shorts so tight they were molded to their sculpted asses. There was more testosterone and muscle mass on the site than you’d find in any city gym, and the guys were always teasing each other about pieces of ass, dick size, and stamina.
The contractors knocked off at three-thirty, though the superintendents, like Joe Lyons, were often around for a few hours longer. One Friday afternoon, with thunderheads looming over the site, my boss stuck his head in my office and said, “I want to know what’s going to happen to our form build-out schedule on Monday if we get a downpour this weekend.”
“I’ll get right on it,” I said. Forms are wooden molds that hold the concrete in place until it sets. We’d had a crew of laborers out all week, digging trenches and hammering the forms together. We were supposed to begin pouring concrete on the exterior walls of the west wing of the mall on Monday morning, with the form workers keeping ahead of the concrete.
If the forms got washed out over the weekend, it would throw the whole schedule off, leading to a cascading effect on all the other trades. It could be a serious setback.
I found Joe Lyons just stepping out of the RV he had parked at the edge of the site. Most of the contractors and foremen were local, but Joe moved around from city to city and site to site, living in an RV that he hooked up to site utilities. “I need to ask you about the pour schedule for Monday,” I said, barely getting the words out.
“Already two steps in front of you, peckerhead,” he said. “I’m going out to inspect the forms right now, see how I think they’ll hold up if we get a gully washer. You can tag along.”
The ground was already wet from a morning thundershower, and my boots kept getting stuck in the mud as I followed him across the site. Maybe it was just that I was paying more attention to the snug fit of his jeans over his tight ass than where I was stepping. I loved the way the two mounds of his ass moved when he walked, the confident swing of his sh
oulders.
We came to the start of the form work, and he said, “What the fuck, over.” Lots of the guys spoke in this kind of quasi radio language, even when face-to-face, and it always threw me. Plus, the testosterone Joe Lyons generated just standing there was enough to make me tongue-tied.
I looked down at the trench and saw that there were varying distances between the edge of the trench and the start of the form work. In some cases, the trench was just wide enough for the forms. In others, there were six or eight inches between the side of the form and the edge of the trench.
“Is it supposed to be like that?” I asked. I fumbled over describing what I saw.
Joe Lyons gave me an appraising look, the corner of his mouth turning up in what might have been a smile. “There might be some hope for you yet, peckerhead.”
He squatted down and motioned for me to do the same. He explained what would happen to the forms and the trenches if it rained, and how long the damage would set back the schedule.
Joe Lyons was so near I could smell the tobacco on his breath and a faint trace of his cologne. Leaning over me to point something out, his face was so close I could have kissed him.
And gotten my ass kicked, I was sure. Joe Lyons exuded a sexy machismo, and I knew from the ribbing he got around the site that he was quite a cocksman. The ladies were allegedly lined up for a piece of his sausage.
And speaking of that, I looked down at his thighs and saw his meat outlined against the taut fabric of his jeans. It had to be eight inches long, thick as a salami. It made me even more nervous to squat there next to him, and I lost my balance, almost tumbling into the ditch in front of us.
He reached out and grabbed my arm, and I fell back against him. For a moment, he held his arm around my shoulder, and I nearly melted under the strength of his grip. “You all right, peckerhead?” he asked.
“You bet,” I said, standing up. The best part was that I understood everything he’d said. I was amazed. I guess I wasn’t so dumb after all. If somebody just explained something to me, I could get it.
I wrote down everything I needed and hurried back to the trailer to work on my schedules. I was so caught up that I didn’t notice the rest of the trailer emptying out. It was Friday afternoon, and they were all ready to party at the local bar, the Cranberry Bog. Nobody’d stopped to invite me, and it wasn’t until I looked up after a deep clap of thunder that I realized I was alone.
When I finished, I saved my work and closed down my computer. Just as I stood, the trailer’s metal roof began rattling with a noisy downpour. Looking out through the front window, I saw the rain sheeting down and knew I’d be soaked through before I made it to my car.
Staring out at the rain, I noticed Joe Lyons come running across the site. He’d obviously been caught out at the far edge of the property, looking at something. Even at a distance, I could see how the rain had soaked through his shirt and jeans, molding them to his body. He might have been slim, but he was a hell of a muscular guy. Watching him lope along was like seeing poetry in motion, and my dick stiffened up in a heartbeat.
Then I saw him go down. The edge of a big drainage ditch at one end of the site, adjacent to his trailer, gave way under his feet. He slipped and slid down into the gully.
Without even thinking, I dashed out the door of the trailer and headed toward Joe. My light cotton shirt and khakis were soaked in a minute but I didn’t notice.
I’d done some junior lifesaving in high school, and I could pull a drowning swimmer out of a pool and administer CPR. So when I saw Joe Lyons lying facedown in the muddy ditch, I jumped in beside him and lifted his head out of the water. He wasn’t breathing, so I pinched his nostrils shut and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
The rain poured down around us, plastering my hair to my forehead and my thin shirt to my back. But I shut it all out to focus on Joe. In a minute, he was coughing up water. I was kneeling on the ground, holding his upper body in my arms, when he looked up at me. “What the fuck, over?” he croaked.
This time I knew what to say. “You fell into the ditch, numb nuts,” I said. “I had to rescue your scrawny ass.”
He started laughing, which turned into a choking cough. “I might need some more of that mouth-to-mouth,” he sputtered.
I was only too happy to oblige. Only what I was really doing was kissing him—and he was kissing me back. He wrapped his arms around my back and pressed himself against me, as the rain poured down on us. Most of him was covered in mud, and that rubbed off on me.
Finally he looked up at the sky. “We’d better get the hell out of here before this whole ditch collapses on us,” he said. He stood up, still shaky on his feet, and tried to climb out. He was having trouble until I put my hands on his sweet, tight ass and pushed.
Up he went. I scrambled up beside him. “Shit all to hell,” he said. “We look like a pair of dirty, drowned rats. You’d better come into my trailer and get cleaned up.”
He got no argument from me. I followed him across the site, peeling off my shirt as I saw him do. When we reached the door of his RV, he said, “No way either of us are going in my house like this,” and he reached down to untie his boots. In a moment they were off, his white socks, stained brown with mud, right after. Then he shucked down his jeans, and I could see that his white briefs were soaked through.
“Come on, what are you waiting for?” he said, as he stripped the briefs off.
While I stripped down, he stood out in the rain, buck naked, letting the water cascade around him and wash away every bit of dirt. His dick was stiff and his nipples erect as the rain beat down on him. He even bent over, opening up his asshole and letting the water stream in.
Oh, man, to be that water!
We were alone on the big empty construction site, the steel skeleton of the east wing looming over us. The trenches containing the forms were filled with water, and thunder crackled in the distance. But it was nothing compared to the sexual tension coming off Joe Lyons.
He stood up and bundled his filthy clothes with mine as I let the water rinse me clean. Then he opened the door of the RV and stepped inside. “Come on, peckerhead,” he said. “I ain’t got all night.”
I stepped right in behind him and closed the door. He stalked ahead to a small washing machine and dropped the clothes inside. Then he threw me a towel, and began to dry himself off. When I finished, I wrapped the towel around my waist. He didn’t, though; he dropped his in the washer.
As if we were naked in front of each other all the time, he took his time, measuring soap, setting dials. Then he turned to me. “You can’t stay wrapped up in that wet towel,” he said. “You’ll catch pneumonia. Hand it over.”
I tossed it to him. He dropped it in the washer, closed the lid, and turned it on. Then he walked over to me.
“You’re shivering,” he said. “Shit all to hell. I’d better warm you up.”
He wrapped his arms around me again, the way he’d done in the ditch, and pressed his lips to mine. I couldn’t get close enough to him; I tried to wrap my leg around behind his butt and press him into me.
He led me to the bed at the back of the RV, then pushed me down on it. In a moment he was on top of me, all his sinewy muscle pressing against me, skin to skin. Our dicks rubbed together as he slid his body up and down over mine, keeping his eyes locked on mine. We built up heat that way, our two damp bodies moving against each other, until my skin felt like it was burning in a hundred places.
Then he sat back on his haunches, leaving his stiff dick facing me. I leaned down and took him in my mouth. He tasted clean and fresh, like rainwater with a touch of salt. He rubbed his fingers through my wet hair and said, “What the fuck, over.”
I responded the best way I knew how, by sucking him until I felt his body start to stiffen; then I pulled back. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, twisting around and presenting him with my butt.
“Damn, that is one sweet ass,” he said. He reached into a drawer next to the bed and pulled
out a bottle of lube and a rubber. I heard the packet tearing, and then felt something cold and wet squirt up my ass. Quickly it warmed up as he entered me with a finger, then two.
I could barely catch my breath. I felt myself panting, heard myself whimper, “Fuck me, please.”
“You’ll never go back to dogs,” he said, and plunged his thick hard cock into me. There was a moment of pain, and then the most intense pleasure, as I felt his body connecting with mine, his groin slamming against my ass, his hot breath on my back.
He couldn’t hold out for long, and suddenly, he was howling, like a wolf in heat, as he made one last push up my chute. “Damn, you are one hot little peckerhead,” he said, pulling out. His calloused hands reached down to my shoulders and flipped me over, so I was facing him again.
His dick was still leaking cum as he leaned down and kissed me again. Then he said, “Let’s see what kind of pecker you’ve got, peckerhead,” and he took my dick in his mouth and started sucking.
I came almost immediately, and he swallowed every drop. Then he flopped down next to me, snaking one long muscular leg over mine. The rain was still pounding the roof of the RV. “Ain’t no way we’re going out in this weather,” he said.
“I can stay right here,” I said, snuggling up against him. “Though I could use a beer.”
He laughed. “Demanding little peckerhead, ain’t you?”
“Hell, you haven’t seen demanding,” I said. “I’m just giving you time to catch your breath and wet your whistle, then I’ll be demanding that dick again.”
“I can see we’re gonna be working together a lot, peckerhead,” he said.
FOOT BRIDGE
Landon Dixon
I’m the boss of a road repair crew for a private construction outfit. We do a lot of work for the state of South Dakota, watering and oiling down dirt roads, spreading asphalt and pouring concrete on highways, and shoring up vehicle and pedestrian overpasses. The work’s hard and usually hot, but the pay’s good and the fringe benefits are often more than even I bargained for.