Scaffolding Stud: The Foreman Who Ruled My Night

I showed up on the downtown Chicago high-rise site at six a.m. with my hard hat and tool belt, still sore from the bus ride in from the suburbs. The foreman, Derek, stood on the second level of scaffolding, shoulders stretching his safety vest, biceps thick and veined under the morning sun. He barked orders in a low Chicago growl, voice carrying over the jackhammers. When he caught me staring he just nodded once, like he already knew I would be trouble.

By lunch he had me working right beside him, hauling rebar and checking measurements. Every time he leaned in to show me something his chest brushed my back, solid muscle under sweat-damp cotton. "You got good hands," he said, voice low. "Bet they work fast when you want something." I felt heat crawl up my neck and kept my eyes on the steel.

Quitting time came around four. Most of the crew headed to the bar across the street, but Derek jerked his chin toward his truck. "Got a couple cold ones at my place two blocks over. Figure you earned one." I followed him without thinking twice.

His loft was bare bones, exposed brick and a mattress on the floor, but the view of the river was decent. He handed me a beer, cracked his own, and pulled off the vest. The tank underneath clung to a chest carved from years of hard labor, abs cut deep, arms roped with muscle. He saw me looking and set the beer down. "Go ahead. Touch what you’re staring at."

I stepped in and ran my palms over his pecs, feeling the heat and the light coat of sweat. Derek grabbed my belt and yanked me closer, mouth crushing mine, tongue pushing past my teeth. His hands were rough from work, sliding under my shirt to pinch a nipple until I groaned. We stripped fast, boots kicked off, jeans hitting the floor with heavy thuds.

He dropped to his knees first, thick fingers wrapping around my cock before his mouth followed. The wet heat was sudden and tight. I watched his broad back flex as he worked me deeper, spit running down my shaft while one hand cupped my balls and tugged. "Fuck, Derek," I breathed. He pulled off with a wet sound, stood, and turned me toward the mattress.

I went down on all fours. He knelt behind me, spreading my ass with those callused palms, then dragged his tongue over my hole in one long, slow lick. He did it again, firmer, until I was pushing back against his face. Two thick fingers followed, working me open with spit and steady pressure while he muttered, "Tight little hole. Gonna open you up good."

When he pushed in, it was one smooth, deep thrust that knocked the air out of me. He stayed buried, hips flush to my ass, letting me feel every inch of that heavy cock. Then he started moving, long strokes that picked up speed until the slap of skin echoed off the brick. I reached down to stroke myself in time with his thrusts.

Derek flipped me onto my back, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and drove back in. Sweat dripped from his chest onto mine. He leaned down, mouth at my ear, voice ragged. "You take it so good. Gonna fill you up." His rhythm turned short and brutal, abs tightening with every snap of his hips until he buried himself to the root and came hard, pulse after pulse deep inside me.

I came right after, stripes hitting my stomach while he kept fucking through it, milking every drop. We stayed locked together, breathing hard, until he finally pulled out and dropped beside me. Outside the window the city lights were coming on. Derek wiped my stomach with his discarded tank and grinned. "Shift starts early tomorrow. You staying the night?"