Under Construction Part IV By Robert Burke
We ate dinner in our shorts and T-shirts, not talking a lot, our legs and feet brushing against each other under the table.
We ate the lasagna from the pan and drank cold mineral water from the bottle. He seemed surprised that I'd actually made it myself, that I liked to cook.
"You need to get out more," I said, picking up what was left in the pan, covering it with foil, and putting it back in the refrigerator.
"I need to get out period," he answered.
I didn't know where he was going with that comment. I looked at the clock. It was almost ten.
"You read all of those?" he asked, looking up at the shelves of paperbacks and the stacks of magazines that lined two of the four walls of my living room.
"I try to," I answered. "I like to read.
"You need to get home?" I asked.
"No," he answered, "You want me to go?"
"I was thinking about your old man."
"I stay in the guest house out back. He doesn't care as long as I don't come home with the police."
I shrugged and took a swig of water.
"You want me to leave?"
"No," I said. "I just don't want you to get into any trouble. Hey, tell me something," I said, changing the subject, "why don't you like being called "Nate"?"
"I don't not like it," he said. "I just want people to be sure of who I am."
"Okay," I said, "just wondering."
We were quiet for a minute.
"So, Nate, you want to spend the night?"
"Yeah."
"Okay by me as long you don't snore," I said, with a smile. "And you don't"
I got in under the covers. Nate stood at the foot of the bed and pulled his T-shirt over his head.
I noticed that the work was beginning to define his slender body. Nothing too obvious, just a slight bulge of muscle that rippled when he moved his arms or in his lats when he bent over slightly to pull down his shorts. His cock was soft, but thickening between his legs.
He got into the bed next to me and put an arm around my waist.
"You going to keep these on?" he asked, fingering the waistband of my shorts.
I smiled and nodded and closed my eyes.
He pulled in closer to me, slipping his hands down to my cock and holding it. I pulled myself up a little further on the pillows and put my arm around him, grazing the thin dark hair of his chest with my fingers.
"Okay," he said, drowsily.
Between the work and the sex and the food, we were both asleep in a few minutes.
I woke before the alarm went off the following morning. The sheet and the comforter had been pulled down past my knees. I opened my eyes and saw Nate between my legs, sucking on my hard cock, which had spread through the slit in my shorts.
He must have sensed me looking down at him. He looked up, my cock still in his mouth, and smiled around it. I smiled back, putting my hand on his head. He pulled his mouth off my cock briefly and said, "Hey".
"Morning," I said.
"Didn't want to wait for breakfast," he said, taking me in his mouth again.
He took my cock as deeply as he could, his eyes tearing a little as his warm mouth chased it down to its base. Though he tried to keep a rhythm, he still broke into rapid swallows and strokes, trying to hurry my coming.
His mouth had a hunger that I remembered from the first few times that I was sucking cock. Then, I believed, the objective was to get everyone hard and off.
It was only with time -- and practice -- that I came to appreciate the fact that these two stages were best enjoyed independently of one another. Each required a particular patience that most men Nate's age lacked.
Moving a cock from flaccid to tumescent, wetting it down and watching it grow, was, for me, a pleasure in itself. Swaddling it with a tongue until the heat of that made it pulsate, the thin vessel -- urethra? - underneath swelling to accommodate the coming ejaculation.
So many hard syllables for such simple acts.
The prize, at his age, was to feel the warm cum shooting out and filling your mouth, gagging and swallowing at the same time, sometimes overflowing your mouth, mixing with saliva, and encouraging you to go down to the base again, feeling him thrust himself deeper into your throat.
As I felt myself getting ready, my hips arching forward into his mouth with more and more emphasis, I put my hand on the back of his neck, first forcing him all the way down, which took him by surprise, I could feel him trying to swallow and gag at the same time, and then pulling him off as I began to cum.
He got the first load full in the mouth, closed and swallowed, before he opened his mouth again. But instead of putting his mouth over my cock, I held his neck with one hand and my cock with another, and let myself direct the rest of my load across his face, avoiding his eyes, which were closed. When I felt the last bit of my final load begin to dribble out of my cock, I pushed his mouth down to it again. He took it eagerly, sucking it gently, swabbing it with his tongue. I watched the large, white drops of cum begin to loosen against the heat of his face and begin to dribble down.
A lot of guys find it uncomfortable -- or maybe only unsettling -- to have their cocks taken again, by hand or by mouth, after they've cum, but there is an intensity about it that, for me at least, seems like the only way to finish.
I stroked the back of Nate's head and soon pulled him off and up to me. A few small drops of cum fell across my T-shirt as I held his face in front of mine and began to lick the rest of the cum off his face. He closed his eyes and let my tongue wander over his lightly bearded cheeks, his lips, across his sharp nose, and then his lips. His fastidiousness kicked in again and he tried to move his mouth away from mine, but I held him firm.
"Open your mouth," I said, looking directly into his eyes.
He opened his mouth and closed his eyes and I kissed him hard, my tongue wrapping around his, covering his teeth, its tip caressing his palate.
He rolled away on his back. I leaned over and bit his left nipple lightly, playfully. It wasn't the really sensitive one. I reached down and took his softening cock in my hand and felt it get hard again. Feeling its warmth and thickness, feeling it grow in my hand, I began to stroke it slowly. A clear drop of pre-cum emerged from the tip. I went down and gently licked it off with just the tip of my tongue. Another followed it and I squeezed his cock. I was fascinated by the similarities between our cocks.
I know that there's a school of thought that holds that "dick is dick", but I'd always been fascinated by the different shapes and colors and angles of them, cut and uncut. Each one was unique to me, but the way our cocks looked -- about the same length, the same girth, with the same brown ring toward the top marking our circumcisions, the way we both produced copious amounts of pre-cum -- struck me again as much as it had yesterday afternoon when I took him in my mouth for the first time.
I put my mouth over the head of his cock and circling it one last time with my tongue, I pulled myself up to his head, my lips against his ear. He'd put his arms behind his head, the thin hair of his pits splaying out.
"I want to watch you get yourself off," I whispered in his ear, reaching across him and pulling his hand down with mine until they were both covering his cock and balls.
"What?"
"You heard me, Nate. I want to see you get yourself off."
"Why?"
"Need a reason?" I said, slipping my hand down further and cupping his balls, gently squeezing them. "C'mon."
I let my hand move further down, spreading his legs a little, stroking the heavier, coarser hair of his thighs.
He held his cock in his hand, but didn't move. He looked at me quizzically like it was a trick question.
"C'mon"
He began to jack himself slowly, tentatively, like he was afraid of doing something wrong or like I was going to grade him. Staring down at his dick and avoiding my eyes, he pumped his cock harder. I raised myself up on the bed, so that my right arm was reaching around, my pit, with its thicker hair, just touching the crown of his head. I flicked his right nipple, pulling a couple of stray hairs out with my fingers. The effect was electric. He raised his head slightly, looking down, never taking his eyes off his cock.
"Hey, slow down, hopalong," I said.
He did as I told him and his head dropped back, but never stopped working his dick. I took my left hand and put it over his, slowing it down even more.
"Ever use lube?" He shook his head.
"Sometimes spit."
"Show you something?" I asked, taking his hand away.
His cock stood by itself, thicker and redder, demanding more attention. I found the lube on the nightstand and covered my hand with it. I took his cock and smeared from the base to the tip of the shaft. Working it up and down, he began to moan.
"Okay," I said, "watch this. It's different, but you get into it. Give me your hand."
I put his left hand around the shaft holding his cock in place. I took his right hand and circled the head of his cock with his thumb and forefinger and began twisting it.
"Just polish the knob," I said, smiling, taking my hand off of his and letting it drop down to his balls. I took both of them at once and gave them a firm squeeze. He let out a little gasp, but didn't stop. I took one nut and then the other between my thumb and my forefinger, rolling them gently. His breathing quickened and I knew that he was close to coming. I let go of his nuts and put my mouth over his right nipple again, this time biting it softly.
"Give it up, man. C'mon. Give it up."
"Oh fuck," he said, as my teeth let go and my lips began to suck. "Oh god, fuck, Blake. Oh fuck."
I pulled my mouth away and watched as his cock began to pump his load out into the cup of his finger and thumb.
I'd forgotten where I'd learned to do it this way -- and I don't do it that often. Like most guys, when I'm getting myself off, I tend to hurry it along. I've gotten better with time, but the temptation to hit it fast can be too much sometimes.
When I work my cock like that, the result isn't the sudden spurting streams that I usually get when I'm getting myself off. It's more like a slow, steady stream of jizz working out of my cock, covering my hands and fingers. I reached over Nate and put my hand over his. He'd just squeezed the last drop out of his cock, the cum spilling over our fingers. I leaned over and kissed his chest just below the nipple. He put his other arm around me and I could smell the warmth of his armpit.
After a moment, I said, "Got a question for you."
"What?" he said, catching his breath.
"Do you only say "fuck" when you're coming?"
We finally showered together after that. Ideally, it would have been one of those long languorous scenes out of a middling porn flick with someone dropping the soap, but we were running late.
I had to drop him off and go get Jesus and Mac over in Fruitvale. But it was good. We soaped each up and I kissed him once, holding his ass in my hands.
I realized that I love Nate's ass. It's a little fuller than I first imagined, but nice and hairy. I felt myself thickening, holding it, and remembering how good it felt to be inside of him. He started to thicken as well as I pulled him close and our cocks brushed against one another.
"We gotta get gone," I said, kissing him under the stream of the showerhead. "We can pick this up later."
I toweled off and pulled on a pair of gym shorts. Walking into the bedroom, I picked up some of the growing pile of laundry -- towels, T-shirts, and underwear -- and took them down the hall to throw in the washer. Laundry has never been my forte; I fill the machine to the brim, toss some soap on top, and turn on the water.
As I heard the water start spilling into the machine, Nate called me from the bedroom.
"You know what I did with my T-shirt and shorts?" he asked, looking under the tangle of jeans and sheets at the foot of the bed.
"I think I just threw them in the washer," I said, chuckling.
"Great. Now, I'm doing your laundry!"
He smiled and arched his eyebrows up and down again.
"That's the plan: feed me, fuck me, and do my laundry. Keep it up and I'll be moving in."
I took one of my clean T-shirts, a pair of briefs, and one of the few pairs of matched socks I had out of the basket and tossed them in his direction.
"Try these," I said. He dropped the towel and picked up the briefs. There was something about watching him step into them, adjusting the pouch of my briefs under his nuts, moving his dick over to the left, looking at the thin trail of hair from his navel to the band, made me want to push him back on the bed and do him all over again.
Instead, I reminded myself that it was work that made the rest of it possible -- with Nate, with anyone -- and just pulled down the gym shorts, stepped out of them, and pulled on my jeans before my cock got too hard.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" asked Nate, buttoning up the front of his jeans.
"What?"
"Haven't you got another pair of shorts in that basket?"
"Thought I'd go commando today," I said, pulling on a T-shirt and buttoning up the last two buttons on my jeans. "This way" I said, smiling at him," if you want to suck my cock while we're tearing that bathroom apart..."
"Christ, Blake..." I'd gotten him to blush again.
"That mean you don't want to suck my cock today?" I said, sitting down to lace up my work shoes. He stood there uncomfortably, still holding the T-shirt I'd given him, getting pissed, like I was making fun of him.
Which I was.
Everybody takes sex seriously when they're young and Nate was no exception. Generally, I respect that and try to avoid being mean about it.
But there are times when we all need to lighten up and this time was his. I finished tying the laces, sat up, and leaned back a little.
"Come `ere," I said, waving him toward me with both hands.
He came across the room and stood almost out of reach. Almost. I reached forward and hooked the waist of his jeans with both hands and pulled him to me.
"You know, Nate, you can be such an ass-aching prig sometimes," I said, holding him in place as he tried to pull away. I brought my mouth over his navel and kissed it, letting my tongue lick his belly down to the waist of his pants.
"I want you to want to suck my cock," I said, softly, looking up at him. "Because I'm definitely going to want to suck yours again," I said, pushing my face into his crotch.
He started to loosen up and put his hands on my head. I stood up. "But right now," I said, kissing him, "we've got to get our butts to work."
I dropped Nate at the house on Lester and told him to start trying to dismount the cracked pedestal sink in the upper bathroom.
"You may not have much luck with it on your own, but don't worry about it. I'll be back with Jesus and Mac in about twenty minutes and we can crack it then." He got out of the truck and put on his toolbelt. I watched him walk up the rotting stairs and liked the way the weight of the belt pulled his jeans down just enough to see the band on my briefs.
When I got to Fruitvale, Jesus was alone. I asked him where Mac was and he explained that he'd had some sort of plumbing problem of his own and would get over to the house later. We talked about the weather and his new girlfriend as I got onto 580.
I've always felt a little more comfortable with Jesus than with Mac, though together they act like brothers or cousins even though there's no real family connection. Next to Mac, he seemed softer somehow, more easy-going. Maybe it's because he didn't share Mac's penchant for bad tattoos.
His short well-muscled body was covered in an even hue of dark brown skin about the color of Mexican chocolate; just a touch of cinnamon. When we'd worked summer jobs before, I'd seen him without his shirt and admired the way his pecs were full and firm, each one punctuated by a large dark nipple that was almost purple. He had a little hair around his navel moving down to his crotch and I already knew what was down there. Sometimes when he was working on something that required him to squat or lean forward, I noticed the lean dimples on his back curving down to the cheeks just beginning to show above his shorts and jeans.
And he always smelled like soap first thing in the morning.
Not perfumed or scented, just clean.
I pulled off the freeway two exits down at Lakeshore and swung into a parking space in front of Starbucks. I got some coffees to go and gave them to Jesus to hold while I drove up Lakeshore, hung a left on Brooklyn, a right on Newton, and a final right on Lester. I pulled up in front of the house and parked the truck. We went upstairs and found Nate.
He took his coffee and said "Good morning" to Jesus, who nodded, "Buenos dias" in return.
He'd managed to unbolt most of the sink, but was getting stuck on the last rear bolt. Jesus took a wrench and got down on his hands and knees with Nate and for the next half hour they took turns turning the slippery bolts. Damn thing finally came loose from the rust and muck that had glued it in place for the last forty years. They stood up and pulled it free from the wall.
"You two go downstairs and see if you can move the dumpster close to the house under the bedroom window," I said. "Maybe I can just toss it out the window instead of us having to lug it down those stairs."
While they went downstairs, I dragged the sink to the next room and opened the window. I looked down and saw the two of them pushing the half-filled dumpster into place.
"Okay," I shouted down to them. "Here it comes!" I squatted down and lifted the sink up and out the window. The next thing I heard was Nate yelling and Jesus swearing in Spanish.
I looked out the window. I hadn't pushed hard enough. The sink had fallen straight down the side of the house and tore off the spigot from one of the outside faucets. Water was spraying everywhere and Nate and Jesus were standing there, soaked, looking up to the window at me.
I took the stairs down two at a time and by the time I reached them, they'd started laughing. I finally got behind the jets of water and turned the nozzle off. I looked at Nate and Jesus and we all started laughing.
"Way to go, Blake," said Nate, pulling his soaked T-shirt away from his body. "We supposed to air dry now?"
Jesus just kept laughing, pulling his T-shirt off over his head and wringing it out.
"I'd say now's a good time to finish our coffee, wouldn't you?" I said.
We went inside the house, standing around the kitchen. Finishing our coffee, I looked at them both.
"We're going to lose most of the day if you guys have to go home and get changed," I said. "There's a laundromat a couple of blocks down on Park. Think you could strip down for a half hour without catching a cold? I'll take your stuff down there and dry them."
Nate started to blush, Jesus looked confused.
"Desnudarse," I said clumsily, making him frown.
"Lavanderia," said Nate, looking at him. "Secar ropa" pointing vaguely in the direction of Park.
Jesus put it together, smiling broadly, and handed me his T-shirt.
He bent down to untie his shoes and I could see the band of his white boxers peeking out from his jeans.
He stood up and popped all the buttons on his jeans in one tug. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he pulled them down with his white shorts tangled in them, and pulled them out with his socks.
He handed me the wet clothes, spread his legs a little so his cock and balls were hanging free, and leaned naked against the counter.
Looking at him, I found myself willing to concede him an extra inch or two.
His cock was thick and the foreskin clung tightly to the tip. Like a lot of Latin men, his balls were held in a dark sac that against the coarse black hair of his crotch looked almost purple.
Nate looked at him and then at me.
"C'mon, Nate," I said, "we haven't got all day. Get out of those clothes."
Jesus was watching him as he pulled the wet T-shirt over his head and handed it to me. He knelt down and unlaced his shoes, stood up, kicking them off.
He saw Jesus watching him and looked at me before unbuttoning his jeans.
He peeled the wet denim away from his body and pulled them off. Standing there in my briefs which were so wet that I could clearly see his dick and balls, he handed me the jeans and stepped back.
"You plan on working in wet briefs all day?" I asked.
"It's okay," he said, stepping back a little. "I'll be fine."
"Nate..."
Jesus laughed a little and looked at me.
"Senor Timido, eh?" he said.
I nodded, but kept looking at Nick.
Finally, blushing under the casual, curious observation of Jesus, he peeled my briefs off and handed them to me. His embarrassment was palpable, but standing there naked against the counter a few feet from Jesus, he wasn't about to give me or Jesus any satisfaction.
"Be back in a half hour, guys," I said.
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