by Neil Plakcy
Frank leaned down and ran his tongue up and down across the glass that separated him from my cock. I pushed myself closer against the glass and rubbed my precome into my hairy balls. He licked his lips as he stood back up to face me.
I grabbed my cock and began stroking it. It lengthened even more in my grip as I continued to devour Frank’s body with my eyes. With one arm resting on the glass above his head, he ran his other hand over his chest and down to the edge of his pants. He undid the button of his pants and then slowly moved the zipper downward. I tried to imagine the sound of the metal teeth of his zipper as they released. My body trembled in response.
He motioned with his hands for me to kneel down. I did as he asked. He raised one foot to the edge of the bucket and untied the lace of his work boot. He removed the boot and wiggled his socked toes in front of me. I took a deep breath hopelessly wanting to smell the scent of his feet through the pane of glass. He reversed his position and removed the other boot in the same manner.
He slid his pants down and tugged each leg out of them. He stood in front of me in a pair of white, tight-fitting boxer briefs. His legs were thickly muscled and covered in the same thick black hair as his chest. The whiteness of his briefs was beautifully exaggerated by the deep coloring of his skin.
He moved closer to the window, and the bulge of his crotch expanded as he became more excited by our actions. It filled the pouch and pushed on the thin, ribbed material. I could see the entire outline of his cock, including the thick overhang of foreskin. I licked my lips as he moved in closer.
I could see the pulsing veins through the material of his underwear as they rushed more blood into his expanding shaft. Dampness appeared and spread across the material. He slipped his hand inside and tugged on the end of his cock. His fingers came out wet and covered in a thick layer of precome. I watched as he moved them into his mouth, savoring his own sweet, salty flavors.
I reached down between my legs and began stroking my cock again. My fist instantly became wet with my excitement as Frank pulled off his underwear. His thick, uncut cock fell heavily between his legs. Precome formed in the folds of his skin and hung loosely in the wind. He wrapped his hand around the head of his cock and milked the precome from the layers of skin before smearing it over his shaft. He leaned into the window with one arm above his head, his hips pushed farther back and his legs spread apart.
He gripped his cock and began stroking it in long, slow rhythmic movements. The thick foreskin and covered head of his cock were positioned directly in front of me. I watched with growing urgency as the large, pink mushroom head of his cock was pushed in and out of the thick folds of its skin. His piss slit widened and he held it open for me. I could see the soft, moist tissue deep inside of it. My tongue slipped out of my mouth almost unconsciously, wanting to slip inside. I saw the muscles in his body tighten just as a stream of thick precome poured out of the slit. He ran the head of his cock across the glass in front of me, leaving a thick trail of dampness behind it. I ran my finger along it, following the flow back and forth as we continued to masturbate.
I stood back up and rested my arm above my head as he had done. Our arms almost seemed to touch one another in our need to get closer. We leaned our foreheads together and looked into each other’s eyes as the motion of our hands increased below us. My pulse quickened as I saw Frank’s breathing becoming stronger and more pronounced. Sweat poured out of his pores, soaking his body to a glistening shine in the sun.
I felt the pressure inside me build, that one-of-a-kind feeling when your body first crosses the no-turning-back line. My body trembled. I heard myself groaning. And then even through the thick pane of glass, I could hear Frank moaning in intense pleasure. We smiled at each other with the realization that we were going to come together.
I grunted. Frank groaned. Our bodies began to tremble. Our overheated bodies pressed tightly against the window trying desperately to make contact. Our eyes locked on to each other’s and wouldn’t let go. My knees buckled as I shot my first load onto the glass. Frank winced, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he lost his load against mine. He quickly looked back at me as if not wanting to miss a moment of our brief time together.
We continued to stare into each other’s eyes as we went on coming. We collapsed toward the ground and came face-to-face with our come dripping down both sides of the window. As if we each knew what the other was thinking we ran our tongues across the glass, licking and tasting our own come. Our tongues and come seemed to blend together. As his eyes stared deeply into mine, I tried to imagine my come as his, his come as mine. He smiled at me and pressed his lips to the glass. I did the same. We kissed with the barrier between us. Both wishing for something more but knowing it was not possible.
An hour later, I was tired and spent and knew no work was going to get done for the rest of the day. I decided to pack it in and go home.
As I left the building and headed down the street I saw Frank coming toward me from the opposite direction. We looked at each other, and he reached out and ran his finger down my arm. My body melted remembering what we had shared on the twenty-seventh floor during our brief office romance.
SANDHOGS
Kiernan Kelly
A lready blistering hot at seven in the morning, the sun bakes my ass inside my flannel work shirt and jeans. I can feel sweat dripping down my spine, collecting at the small of my back, pooling in my armpits, dampening my crotch. Standing in front of the Check-In/Check-Out board for City Tunnel No. 3, where I’m supposed to meet Sonny’s kid, I’m dressed for fucking December, not August. But down in the tunnels the temperature never gets much above fifty-five degrees, even when the city is being fried to a crisp under the summer sun six hundred feet above my head.
Sonny was a good guy, Pop’s best friend. Before he died, I promised Sonny I’d take his son down the first time, and I’ll know the minute the cage starts to descend into the shaft whether or not he’s got the stuff it’s going to take to make it in this business. The money’s good, which is the only reason a lot of men stay at it. Still, most sandhogs are second or third generation. It’s in our blood, but even then it’s not for everybody. Takes something special in a man to be a sandhog, to spend your life drilling holes underneath the ground like a mole. Breathing in dust all day, knowing that it’s going to fuck up your lungs; knowing that there’s a good chance that you might go down and not ever come back up, but still showing up for your shift. I only hope Sonny’s kid doesn’t puke or shit his pants before we hit bottom.
Walking toward me is a younger version of Sonny, what he must have looked like when he first put on his hard hat forty years ago. Six foot at least, broad shoulders, thick neck. No gut—that’ll come later after a few years spent drowning his fears in pitchers at O’Malley’s after work, if he makes it. For the time being his stomach is flat, hips lean. He’s wearing a dark blue flannel shirt and stiff jeans that look brand new. Enjoy the feeling while it lasts, kid. They’re going to be covered in mud and soaked in sweat by quitting time.
“I’m Billy,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. It’s big, like the rest of him, but soft. Not a single fucking callus, although his grip is strong. Well, that’ll change soon enough. Those smooth palms will be sprouting blood blisters by the end of the day.
If he lasts that long—most don’t. They’ll go topside at lunchtime and never come back. Billy tried college but hated it, and decided to follow in his dad’s footsteps. We’ll see if this is just another thing he quits.
“Ready to go?” I ask, looking into Billy’s dark blue eyes. I’m still sizing him up, looking for weaknesses, for anything that’ll give me a clue as to whether he’s going to make it or be crying for his mama before noon. I see nervousness masked by Brooklyn cockiness, a cool I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me flash in his eyes and a tight, thin smile on his lips. Well, you can’t fool me, kid. Don’t bother with the tough-guy attitude—I know better. I’ve seen too many boys like you go down, full of piss
and vinegar, only to come up an hour later shaking and puking on the toes of their brand-new rubber boots. “Okay, then. Let’s go. Flip your tag,” I order, nodding toward the Check-In/Check-Out board.
Billy takes a minute to find his name on the pegboard. Under each man’s name is a double-sided hangtag. Green side means you’re topside, red means you’ve gone down into the belly of the beast. We have to flip the tags on the way down and when we get back up—it’s the law. In reality, it’s the only way the contractor will know which bodies to look for if something goes wrong down there, although I refrain from mentioning that tidbit of information to Billy. No sense in having him shit his pants before we even get down.
I lead Billy over to the cage, the narrow, metal-grated elevator that will take us into the shaft. This is it, the moment of truth. Once the cage gets deep enough where the surface is so far above your head that you can’t see the sky or feel the air moving, a man is forced to be truthful with himself. It’s in that moment that he finds out if he’s got the balls for this kind of work.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with Billy in the tight confines of the cage, I can smell him. He’s sweating, but not from fear. Fear has a unique odor, sharp and biting, that oozes out of a man’s pores along with his perspiration. But Billy doesn’t reek of fear—it’s something else entirely. A musky scent that’s familiar, that makes me take a quick look at the crotch of his jeans.
I’ll be dipped in shit if he doesn’t have a fucking hard-on. He’s not afraid—he’s excited. Good for you, Billy-boy. Any man who can get a boner from the idea of being stuffed six hundred feet underground with a couple of thousand tons of rock and earth hanging over his head has promise. Maybe he’s going to make it after all.
I can’t help but be impressed by the size of his bulge. Damn, the boy has talent there under his zipper. I can imagine it springing free into my hand, thick and hot, its fat, rosy head already wet with precum. No shaving for Billy-boy—he’ll have a thick thatch of hair at his cock’s root, inky black. I want to bury my nose in it, feel those crisp curls against my cheek.
No, I can’t let myself go there. Sex, especially sex with the son of Pop’s best friend, a kid still wet behind the fucking ears, is something I shouldn’t be thinking about right now. Letting your mind wander when you’re in the tunnels can get you killed. Not to mention that my brother sandhogs would probably geld me with a sledgehammer if they ever found out that I’m into men. Got to stay focused, but damn, it’s hard. Then again, so am I, thinking about Billy’s cock.
The cage rattles and groans, slowly lowering us into the darkness of the shaft, and I force my thoughts back to where they should be—on the job. The trip down will take four minutes—and you have no idea of how long four minutes can be until you spend it being dropped feetfirst into the bowels of the earth. I find myself rooting for Billy. I want him to make it. Hold on, Billy-boy, here we go. Keep it together, now.
An image of Billy’s cock, stiff and slick, balls hanging heavily behind it, flashes into my mind. Yeah, think happy thoughts, Billy. I know I am.
Halfway down the shaft, he curses softly under his breath. His eyes dart toward me, wide, his Adam’s apple working double time as he swallows repeatedly.
“Don’t look up,” I yell over the grating metallic scream of the cage, wrapping my fingers around his forearm. His muscles are tense and as hard as stone under my hand. Lifting weights, doing chin-ups and push-ups has kept him in shape, bulked him up. He’s strong enough to wield a sledgehammer, or keep a jackhammer under control. Strong enough for the work that needs to get done, if he can just keep his cool. “Don’t think about it. We’re almost there.”
The fear fades, and he nods, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. I can feel his muscles relax under my hand. Good boy. That’s when I know for sure that he’s going to be okay. He’ll make it, tough it out. He’s got sandhog blood.
We finally hit bottom, stepping out of the cage into the bell-out area. Assigned to work breaking up rocks the tunnel boring machine spits out, we pick up a pair of sledgehammers and hop the railroad car that will take us to the rock face at the head of the tunnel. It’s hard, backbreaking, sweaty work, but it sure as hell ain’t rocket science. Billy’s got a strong back. He should do fine.
The morning passes without incident. Billy proves to be a hard worker, swinging his sledge tirelessly against the rock, breaking down the larger pieces so they can be carried back up to the surface on the conveyer belts.
After an hour at this, his flannel shirt is plastered to his body, soaked from both sweat and the water that constantly drips down from the rock ceiling. Under the pretense of supervision, I stand back and watch Billy’s muscles move fluidly underneath the wet material, rock-hard biceps bulging as he smashes the rock into gravel. Billy’s thighs are powerful, his ass firm as it clenches under his jeans. I wonder if he’d look as good naked as he does under those wet clothes. Some guys don’t, but I imagine that Billy would look even better in his skin.
It’s the best show I’ve seen all week, and I’m almost disappointed when the lunch whistle blows.
“Lunchtime. Good, I’m starving,” I holler over the roar of the machinery. True enough, but it’s not food that I want. I’m hungry to take a bite out of Billy’s tight ass, to suck his cum out through his dick until he whimpers, but unfortunately that’s not on the menu.
“I smell like a fucking sewer,” Billy says, taking a quick whiff of his armpit after he drops his sledge. Personally, I’m into the smell of a hardworking man, musky and strong, the odor of male. I wouldn’t mind burying my face in his hairy pit, taking a lick, but Billy doesn’t seem to have the same appreciation for it. He screws up his face, waving a hand in front of his nose.
“Get used to it. We all wear the same cologne down here—Eau de Sandhog,” I laugh. “C’mon, let’s go eat.” I try to ignore the fact that my cock is filling again. As I turn away I readjust myself, hoping Billy hasn’t noticed that I’ve been sporting wood for the better part of the morning. Damn, what is it about this boy that has me so fucking turned on?
His body is hot, that’s the reason, and I know it. No use lying to myself. He’s not a pretty boy, but then I’ve never been attracted to sweet little twinks. I don’t want to change diapers—I want to fuck. I like my men beefy, men who can take what I’ve got to give and give it right the fuck back. The kind of guys I don’t have to be afraid of breaking when I ride them.
Billy fits the bill. Clean shaven when we met at seven in the morning, his jaw is already covered by a blue-black shadow and smudged with dirt and grease. His eyes are deep set under thick dark brows that are trying to meet in the middle but don’t quite make it across his wide forehead. Billy’s nose is strong but slightly twisted, as if it might have been broken a time or two. The prettiest part of his face is his mouth. Full and lush, his lips are the kind made for kissing, the sort that make a man ache to taste them.
Billy is all Man, with a capital M, from his short-cropped black hair to his size 14 boots. Everything in between is rock solid and slathered in testosterone, exactly made to order for a guy like me. I can’t seem to keep my eyes off him, or keep my mind from doing things to him that would make a porn star blush.
It’s going to be a long fucking afternoon.
I lead Billy away from the conveyer belt and the clouds of dust and rock that choke the air, into one of the dark, narrow side tunnels. It’s even colder there, away from the heat generated by the machinery and the bodies of the men who work them, but it’s relatively quiet and dry.
The only light comes from the beams on our hard hats, weak yellowish rays that illuminate dust motes floating in the air. I flick on a portable lantern and set it down on an empty oil barrel, shedding a little more light on our impromptu café. Settling down on a pair of wooden crates, we crack open our metal lunch boxes and dig in. Regardless of my current state of horniness, sandhogging is hungry work and I’m starved. I wolf down two bologna sandwiches and half a thermos of
coffee without pausing to take a breath between bites.
Billy’s even faster than me, inhaling a foot-long hero made up of some unidentifiable deli meats, and draining a pair of Cokes in no time flat. I don’t think I saw him chew once. He’s like a snake, swallowing his food whole.
“Want some coffee?” I ask when I see Billy watching me with a greedy look in his eye. I’m out of anything edible, but the kid looks like he’s hungry enough to chew rocks. I cock an eyebrow when Billy stands up, looking down at me. He’s not saying anything, just staring at me like I’m a breaded pork chop or a piece of fried chicken.
“You’ve been watching me all day,” he finally says, hooking his thumbs into his front pockets. I can’t help but notice that his hands frame the bulge at his crotch, which is now temptingly at eye level and no more than a foot away from me. Look but don’t touch, I have to remind myself. I want to reach out and give him a squeeze, feel the meat that pushes against his zipper, but instead I jerk my eyes upward to meet his.
“That’s my job. To make sure you don’t get dead on your first day.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’ve had a fucking hard-on all day. I’ve seen it. Shit, I felt it every time you brushed against me. You’re queer,” he says quietly. It’s not an accusation, there’s no venom in his voice; but that he’s up and said it in the first place presents me with a huge problem.
I feel like I’ve been slammed upside the head with a major case of what the fuck, bringing me to my feet. I thought I’d kept it on the down low, keeping what I’d been thinking all morning to myself. The last thing I need is for this kid to spread rumors around the tunnel. That gets around and I’ll find myself without a job before I can blink, and probably beat-to-shit to boot, union or no union.