He Worked Me Over After the Iron Shift

The South Side Y still smelled like chlorine and old rubber when I shoved through the door after shift. Thirty-three, shoulders cooked from eight hours on the beam, tee stuck to my back. I wanted plates and quiet. Then I saw him loading the flat bench like the iron owed him money.

He told me later he was twenty-eight. Shorter than me, wider through the chest. EMT polo on the rack, gray shorts high on thighs built for hauling gurneys. Dark hair, a white scar through one eyebrow, arms thick enough to make the bar look small. He caught me staring and did not blink.

"You gonna stare or work in?" he said. "Both. Cole Brennan. Just off the iron downtown." "Nate Alvarez." He nodded at the bar. "Spot me, then I spot you. Fair?" "Fair."

I got behind the bench. Sweat tracked his spine. Lats flared when he unracked. I hovered my hands until the last rep shook, and he slammed the bar home, grinning. "Your set. Don't make the city look soft." I lay back. He stood over me to check the collars, and for a second his crotch was level with my face. The heavy shape in those shorts was right there. I looked. His mouth crooked. "Eyes up," he said. "Or don't. Your call."

Third set, my arms quit. Nate's hands closed over mine and he hauled the weight up like a lunchbox. We stayed there, his chest on my knuckles, both of us breathing hard. "Locker room," he said. "Unless somebody's waiting." "Nobody. You?" "Truck's out back. I've been clocking you since the pull-up bar." His voice dropped. "You walk like you want to get used." Heat hit my gut. "Then use me."

The locker room was nearly empty. Nate stripped fast. No briefs. His cock was thick, already lifting, dark at the head, heavy against a thigh that could dent a fender. My jeans hit the bench and he looked me over like a foreman checking a beam. "Damn. They pour you on the job?" "Little of both. Come here."

We didn't kiss gentle. Salt and mint gum, stubble on my lip, his hand locked on my nape. I wrapped a fist around him and he swore into my teeth. Hot, dense, jumping in my palm. I stroked slow, thumb on the slit, and he rocked into it. "Shower. Then the truck. I don't want hallway cameras on this."

Water slammed the end stall. He soaped my chest, thumbs on my nipples until I hissed, then wrapped my cock and worked it slick. I shoved back. His dick rode the cleft of my ass, not in, fat and stubborn. "You take it?" "Yeah. Couple months. Easy till I say otherwise." "Heard." He bit my shoulder, enough to loosen my knees. "Turn around. Mouth first."

I knelt on wet tile. He fed himself to me, hand in my hair, guiding. I took the head, soap and salt and skin, then more, jaw stretched around him. His groan hit the cinder block. "Just like that, Cole. Slow. Hollow your cheeks." I worked him until his thighs jumped. He pulled free, cock shining, head flushed dark. "Not in here. Shorts on. Truck."

The lot was black except one buzzing sodium lamp. His crew-cab sat at the far row. He killed the dome light, shoved a duffel down, and hauled me onto his lap. "Condoms and lube in the console. I don't play stupid." "Good." I found both. "Facing you?" "Facing. I want your face when I get in."

He rolled the condom on, slicked himself, then opened me with two thick fingers while I knelt over him. The stretch burned clean. I breathed against his mouth, his free hand spreading me. "Okay?" "More." A third finger, and I was bearing down, cursing. He lined up. I sank. Blunt head, then the shaft, fullness that knocked the wind out of me. I stalled halfway, shaking. "Easy. Sit when you're ready. I'm right here."

I took the rest and we both went still, full, the cab smelling like vinyl and sex. A bus hissed on Carson. His hands locked on my hips. "Move." I rode him, slow then mean, cock slapping his stomach. He drove up and the angle lit a wire behind my balls. He talked the whole time. "Big ironworker taking it. Tight as a fist. Use me. Fuck yourself down on it." "Harder. Don't baby me."

He flipped us without pulling out, my back on the seat, one leg over his shoulder, and really fucked me. The vinyl stuck to my back. Streetlight cut across his chest, all that muscle flexing. Deep, steady, hips loud in the closed cab. His balls pressed tight against me every time he bottomed out. Sweat off his chin hit my chest. I stroked in time. "Close," I said. "Come on me. I'm staying buried so you feel every kick." That finished me. I came hard across his stomach and my fist, vision whiting out, hole clamping down on him. Nate cursed, slammed in twice, and stayed there, grinding, cock kicking as he spilled. He dropped his forehead to mine and laughed once, wrecked.

"You good?" "Better." I kissed him slower, all sweat. "You always pick up ironworkers?" "First one who could take a shift and then take me." He eased out, tied the condom, cracked the door and dumped it in the lot can like a man who kept things clean. Back inside, he pulled me to his chest. His heart was still hammering. "Place is ten minutes. Real shower. Food. Round two if your legs work." "They work." I dragged a hand through the mess on his stomach and he shivered. "Bridge job till six tomorrow. After that, your truck or my bed." He thumbed my lower lip in the dark. "Deal. Next time I bend you over that bench before we hit the shower. Fair?" "Fair," I said, and meant every letter of it.