Wednesday 16 November 2016

Work Shop Boy


The machine shop - 6/10/99

His name was Brett; the sandy-hair young guy in the machine shop. His hair was cut short, perhaps a number two and his face was round, tanned and he smiled easily. I’ve never met a Brett I didn’t like, and he was no exception.

He worked in the machine shop, downstairs and below the offices, where I worked.

He’d say, “How are ya,” and smile and wink in that blokey sort of way as I walked passed on my way to collect the time cards and to stir up the managers in the back office. They could slack off down there if they thought there was no one keeping an eye on them.

Two smiles hello, but I bet he wasn’t stripping me with his eyes as I was him?

I imagined Brett’s testicles rolled around as he said, “How are ya,” like a cord was being pulled up through his arse, such was the depth of his baritone voice. It surprised me a little from such a fresh face. Such a man’s voice emanated from him when he spoke. It was the sort of voice that would come from the pit of the stomach. He couldn’t have been older than twenty.

A clear open face, his lips rolling into a smile so easily, neatly finishing the pale skin of his face around his mouth in healthy pink mounds. He had a beautiful mouth. I’d seen him laugh so often with his work mates in the workshop, all boys with girls in bikini’s hanging on calendars on the walls. Work benches and machinery and the constant whirr of construction.

Brett’s was a smiling and happy face, as open and as a fresh as a spring day; pale blue eyes, pale skin with freckles and strawberry blonde hair. His smile was beautiful and had the devil in it, all at the same time. His innocent’s had a disarming edge. He could look right through you in a momentary lapse of concentration.

I was often found down in the machine shop striking up a conversation where I could.

He reminded me of a young deer, a young buck, already powerful but not yet aware of his strength, still giving the impression of tottering a little on his long legs. At the height of his power, but as yet still unaware of it’s abilities. I could gaze at him all I liked, so it would seem and he simply saw it as friendship. He’d smile and chat back, he had a habit of touching me on the arm whenever I said something that amused him.

His hand felt big and warm.

The curves of his overall-clad body were smooth and flowing, curving beautifully at his shoulders and arse with a long softly flowing torso, a narrow stretch joining two masculine curved mounds. His arse filled out around his hips, round and firm and it filled his over-all’s leaving only the material around his stomach lose fitting.

He had a habit of showing me his arse whenever I walk by, bending sweetly as he worked, so his rear was fully exposed, like he was offering it to the world quite unwittingly. (subconsciously, he was aching for it to be filled) Coincidence, nothing else. Pushing it out into a pucker, my imagination ran with it, wild thoughts followed.

I could almost taste his soft hole on the tip of my ripe tongue.

I found myself imagining what he may look like prone over his work bench face first, his overalls around his ankles, masturbating, letting his arse be completely free. Uninhibited, oblivious to anything but his own needs, thumbing girlie magazines, the calendars off the walls, in the deserted workshop when everyone else had left for the day.

I shook my head disbelieving at the thoughts he had engendered, surprised at the instantaneous depravity of my imagination. I kept walking, I’m sure, with a bemused smile on my face.

The workshop was like a big aeroplane hanger, although the roof was of course too low, but it was a big tin shed that stretched down to the back of the company’s property, with doors and prefabricated rooms all leading off to somewhere else.


One day I saw Brett hurt his hand, as he was fabricating some sheet metal at his workbench. The sharp tin caught him on the hand, slashing it around the base of his thumb. It was a deep gash into his flesh. His face screwed up into a pained expression and turned red and momentarily he looked like a little boy just about to cry. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. I went over to comfort him, I wanted to pat his forehead and hold him until the hurt passed, but he went pale and passed out and collapsed into my arms, instead. The blood ran from his hand, in a scarlet torrent, sweet and sticky to touch, like golden syrup or treacle on my hands. I couldn’t look at it; blood made me faint also.

He had been working back, so had I, there was no one else around.

2001

His chest felt broad as I wrapped my arm around him to catch him. Hold him. He was suddenly very heavy, a dead weight. His face was serene as he fell against my neck, where his breath felt warm on my skin and his cheek felt soft to touch.

He smelt sweaty and dusty and slightly acidic. His hair felt surprisingly soft against my face. He smelt good. I rubbed his ear with my nose. I held him in my arms, he was falling for me, I laughed. I hugged him tight. His body felt good against my body. My cock started to go hard against him.

I lay him gently on the ground. I wrapped a towel tightly around his hand, it was dirty as it had been lying on the floor, but the blood soon stopped flowing because of it, although it seeped through and made the bandage red before it stopped.

He lay there as if he was in the most peaceful sleep. I touched his face and ran my hand over his chest, down the front of his over-alls, over his stomach, gently touching him when I felt what was soft and squashy between his legs; his round testicles and his sleeping cock. It all fitted into my hand. I watched his face, nothing.

2002

I wondered if he’d stay unconscious long enough for me to slip my hand in the side of his over-all’s. They were a press-stud type, three in a row behind the pockets on his hips. He’d only fastened the top one, my hand slipped through easily. His hipbone stuck up and the elastic of his briefs was tight, hugging his warm soft skin. Pubic hair poked out of the top of his briefs at the front, course and bushy. I swirled my fingertips around in it gently. It felt so good. The material of his briefs, below his tuft of pubic hair, felt soft and warm and inviting. I slipped my long finger under the elastic and touched his foreskin, bunched like a sleeping bag. It felt soft and pliable; the tip of my finger slipped inside with a push and touched the slippery end of his knob inside.

I pulled my hand out as I began to shake.

I wanted to give him a hard on; a shiver ran up my back. It would be the only chance I’d get. Maybe. I squatted down and gazed at him for a time, waiting for him to wake. His sleeping face, the neck of his T-shirt lay gently around his strong freckled neck. I touched his skin where it disappeared under the white material. I wanted to kidnap him and undress him and lay him in a bed with just the corner of a sheet covering his genitals. My sleeping prince. I wanted to posses him, dress him up, undress him, taste his fluids.

I shook him gently and said his name but he just lay there.

Beautifully serene, it was a moment I hadn’t expected, there was no hurry. I shook him again, gently squeezing his biceps, which were round and plump and hard, and I rubbed his chest, making his nipples hard under my touch. They both became like little bullets on his chest. His face twitched, I removed my hand, and his blue eyes blinked open in his pale skinned face. Momentarily, he looked five years old and completely lost and in needed of his mother. He looked dazed, like an angel waking up from sleep.

“What happened?” he said.

“You cut your hand and you fainted,” I said. “But it’s okay, I’ve wrapped a bandage around it.”

“Jesus,” he said lifting his bandaged hand into the air.

“Just be sure you’re okay before you get up.”

“Thanks mate.” He sat up and looked pale and dazed. “It’s good that you were here. I owe you.”

I smiled.

“We’d better get you to a doctor, have that looked at.” He started to peel back the bandage. “It’s nasty,” I said. “Perhaps you should leave it until we get you to the doctor.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. He put his arm around my shoulder and I helped him to his feet, hugging him tight as he stood up right. My hand rested in the small of his back. I wanted to slide it down onto his arse, just to see the look on his face. I wanted to kiss him, as he stood helpless against me, as I held him up. I massaged his back. He stood there getting his head together.

“I’ll drive you, to the doctor,” I said. “You may not be able too with that hand.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t suppose I will. I’ve got a manual car and all.”

“You’ll need stitches, it’s pretty deep.”


I took him to the doctor. He had to have six stitched in his hand.


I took him home to his place, a small flat in an ugly brown sixties block, in Preston. A chair, a table and a TV with Foxtel, that was all Brett seemed to need.

“I need a scotch,” Brett said as soon as we got there.

“I’ll make it, if you like,” I said. “You sit down.”

“Cheers,” Brett replied. “I’m gonna take my over-all’s off.” He disappeared into the bedroom, as I looked in the cupboard above the fridge for the scotch and the glasses as directed.

I rested the glasses on the washing machine, which was next to the fridge. The two hi-ball glasses seemed to be the only glasses Brett had. I made his a triple and disguised the fact with coke.

“Thanks mate,” he said to me with a pat on the back as he came into the kitchen. “I owe you, Chris. Whatever you want.” He’d taken off his over-all’s. He stood there in his underwear and T-shirt.

I handed him the scotch and we chinked glasses and I thought about him lying on the floor of the machine shop, helplessly letting me take charge. Now I could see his package, the bulge in his cotton briefs. It looked good.

“Ah, I needed that,” said Brett as he sipped his drink, before he turned to go back into the lounge room. His black long legged briefs hugged his round arse tight. The material slipping in and out of his crack as he walked. I watched him walk.

He flicked the TV on and sat in one of the two orange beanbags that had been piled together behind the kitchen door.

“Jesus, what a day,” he said as he picked up the remote with his good hand.

“Yeah,” I agreed as I sat in the other beanbag.

I had some Rowy’s in my car from the last dance party I’d been too. A friend had asked me to bring them for him, but I didn’t find him the whole night, so they were still in my car, I hoped. I don’t take them usually myself. If I take an upper I want to experience the whole effect, not cut it short with a downer. I never understood that? It would be like having your stomach pumped half way through a drinking session. If you want to take downers, just take less uppers, surely that has the same effect.

“I need to get my smokes out of my car,”

“Sure,” said Brett “Just leave the door unlocked so you can get back in. Then I don’t have to get up.”

The Rowy’s were in the plastic film canister in my glove box, next to the film canister that contained my parking meter change. There were four tablets and two tabs of ecstasy. I had no recollection about the E. Could I give him them all? I wasn’t sure. I shrugged as I pushed the security door open. I took one step back into the block and realised I had forgotten my smokes.

“Jesus.” That would have given it away.

“Another scotch,” said Brett as I entered the apartment, holding the empty glass in the air.

“Sure,” I said as I took the glass. This is going to be easy.

His kitchen was small, painted white, just a sink and a bench and a fridge and a stove. Square lino tiles, bare walls and a small aluminium window over the sink. The benches were barren; it was as if no one lived here at all.

I slipped the Rowy’s into his scotch. They dissolved to nothing. I laughed at the thought of getting the glasses mixed up, me comatose and dribbling on the beanbag, with Brett having no idea why. I was vigilant not to swap the glasses. It made me nervous until he’d taken it out of my hand.

“Thanks,” he said with a sweet smile looking up at me with his twinkling eyes, as he took the glass. Such trust. “You’re a mate, Chris.”

I raised my eyebrows and smiled and sat back down in the beanbag with my scotch.

Brett grabbed the remote and the television went clunk as it powered into life.

“Do you live here by yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, just me. Not even a cat.”

“It’s a cool place.” I was just being friendly.

“I’ve been here six months.”

“Have you got a girlfriend?” I asked.

“No, no one special,” he said. “I don’t want the hassle. But I could do with a regular girl for sex.” He rubbed at his crutch. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said. ”You gotta get it where you can.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Chance’d be a thing.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

We drank our scotches. “The Weakest Link,” was on the television.

“My hand is throbbing, do you reckon you could get me those pain killers.”

“Sure,” I said. I wondered about the painkillers on top of the Rowy’s I’d just given him, as I headed off into the kitchen to collect them. I shrugged my shoulders and thought nothing more about it. He’s young, what harm could they do? “Another scotch?”

“Sure, I’ll need something to wash them down with,” he said as he passed me his glass. I wondered how much scotch Brett should have.

I was getting a bit pissed as I matched his glasses of scotch one for one. I wasn’t that much of a drinker, not usually. Strictly a marijuana boy myself. But of course, I was making mine singles and his triples. I hated scotch normally, couldn’t stand the taste, but I wanted to be sociable, at least for the next little while, until the Rowy’s took effect.

The painkillers warned not to operate any machinery as they may cause drowsiness. I gave him three. He complained that his hand was sore. I wanted to explain to him that if he just waited thirty minutes…but how could I?

He looked at the three painkillers in his hand and then back at me.

“Bottom’s up,” I said. He swallowed them, washed down with his third triple scotch, in which I dissolved an E.

He handed me the glass when he’d finished. I took it with a smile.

“You are the Weakest Link,” said the host on the TV. I looked at Brett; he had closed his eyes.

“Woe,” said Brett, trying to open his eyes wide. “My head’s spinning.”

“It’ll just be the painkiller, that should wear off in a minute,” I said. "The alcohol may have made them work quicker?"

“It feels kind of nice when I relax and let go,” he said. “I just wish the room would stop spinning.”

“Don’t fight it,” I said.

“They sure are strong,” he slurred. “Jesus.” He rubbed his forehead. He lay back in the beanbag. “I don’t thin…”

I took the scotch glass out of his hand. His head turned sideways on the beanbag. His legs relaxed and fell apart ever so gently. His hand rested on his thigh.

I finished my drink.


He lay there completely helpless, innocents etched across his serene face. He had good legs, muscular and hairy. He had little hips and a beautiful stomach, what was visible, where his T-shirt had ridden up. I pushed it up to his chest so I could see his nipple. I sucked at it gently, as if milk might come out at any second.

I took his T-shirt off; it came off straight over his head. I held his head so it wouldn’t flop awkwardly. I didn’t want him to sustain any permanent damage.

His chest was near perfect. Defined pecs, two red nipples and a six pack underneath. Such beautiful tits, I sat there crossed legged, admiring them. So soft so smooth. I kissed his flesh, licked him, sucked the salt off his body.

His nipples went hard as I sucked on them, leaving a ring of saliva around each. It glistened in the light; the skin around each was red. Wonton innocence sleeping. Slut boy, for a good time…

His nipples felt like peas between my fingers, they remained hard and erect. He smelt good with his nipples in my mouth, sweaty, like a man. I bit too hard and drew blood; I’m use to some response before I get to that stage. I licked the drip from his skin, it tasted acidic. Blood brothers. I licked his blood again. I wanted to bite him and make him bleed more, so I could quench my thirst at his fountain of life. If I’d had sharp eyeteeth, I’d have bitten his neck.

I slipped my hand into his black trunks. I cupped his balls in my hand. They felt soft and squashy. I rolled them around, like eggs.

He rolled over like I’d always imagined a corpse would. Floppy. Pliable. Limp and manageable.


I pulled his trunks down his thick thighs and over his feet. The boy had a great arse, plump cakes, with a crack fill with reddish blond hair.
I didn’t have a condom, shrug, I was negative the last time I had it checked. He had sorbolene cream in his bathroom cupboard. I spread it through the deep crack between his cheeks and over my cock which could have won the wet towel competition, right at that moment, no sweat. It sprung up in the air every time I stopped massaging in the white cream.

The tip of my finger penetrating him each stroke of the cream. His tight ring relaxing after every gentle push of my fingertip. The flesh parted more and more and his soft red membrane slowly allowed me in.

I stroked my cock between his cheeks. I sawed at that hairy butt as I gently held his thick shoulders. His little waist bent backwards and forwards as I rode his round arse. He was slippery and wet, I was going to ride him good.

Brett groaned, the voice of someone who didn’t want to wake. He groaned again, like he wanted unconsciousness, but something was calling him from sleep. He groaned again, the sound baby Harp seals make just before they are clubbed.

I pushed harder, he opened slowly. Then, I was fully submerged. He held tight as I started to move.

He groaned like a deaf boy, who’d never heard human speech or the married man at the beat, when he finally lets go after so many years.

He bucked his arse and threw his head. His arse held tightly, as I lanced him again and again with my sword, like steel it was, it had never been so hard. He barked like a mute when I pushed on his prostate, but fell down unconscious afterwards every time. I’d have thought that would unnerve me. Scare me. Put me off. But it just made my dick harder; he’d push back when I massaged his prostate. I lanced his anus like raw meat.

Just as Chris cums deep in his tight hole, Brett leans over the back of the couch and makes a chocking noise. Then there is the unmistakable sound of rushing fluid. Brett is gagging. “Jesus, I don’t feel good.” Slurred at best, could hardly be called speaking.

Chris pulls his still hard cock from Brett’s arse.

Brett vomit’s again.

Chris gets the towel he had for the clean up and wipes Brett’s mouth. Brett lays gently back down on the couch. Chris pulls his jocks on over his erection. He pulls on his jeans, zips them up. He looks over the back of the couch, with the towel still in his hand. He looks at the mess behind the couch, he looks at the vomit, he throws the towel back down on the couch. He shakes his head and grimaces.

Chris pulls Brett’s jocks and jeans back up. Chris lies looking at the ceiling. He realises he doesn’t have to wait for Brett to wake, so he leaves.

Brett tells him a few days later that he was really sick from the painkillers.

“What happened to you, anyway,” says Brett. “I had weird dreams.”

“You fell asleep, so I left,” I said. “I thought it was probably best if you slept it off.”

“Thanks Chris,” said Brett smiling broadly. “You’re a mate.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I was happy too.”

“Hey, do you want to come over next week,” said Brett. “We could do it again.” He smiled. “Except of course, without the cut hand.” He smiled again holding his hand in the air. “And I won’t fall asleep.” He laughed. He looked adorable. “I promise.”


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