Muscular Scaffolder Used Hard by New Colleague

The sun was already mean by midmorning, baking the steel until the scaffolding rang under their boots. Darius, twenty-five, thick through the shoulders and thicker through the thighs, hauled another ledger into place and felt the sweat gather in his beard. Years on sites had built him hard: heavy arms, a work-worn chest under the high-vis, dirt ground into the creases of his hands. Today the foreman had paired him with the new man, and the day had not felt ordinary since.

Victor was twenty-eight and impossible to miss. Two meters of him, easy, shoulders so broad he had to turn sideways through the cage gate, tattoos crawling from his wrists up under the sleeves and across the thick column of his neck. When he bent for a coupler, the work pants pulled tight across an ass like carved stone and, worse, across the front, where a fat, heavy bulge sat obvious as a fist. Darius tried not to look. He looked anyway.

They worked the same bay all day. Victor passed tubes without wasting words, his voice low and rough, a German accent sitting under the English. Sweat darkened the gray of his shirt between those ridiculous shoulders. Darius caught the smell of him whenever they crowded the same platform: salt, sun, and something muskier that made his own cock shift in his pants. Once, reaching past him for a bolt, Victor’s forearm brushed Darius’s chest. Neither of them moved for a second too long. Victor’s eyes dropped, slow and unashamed, to the way the shirt clung to Darius’s pecs, then to the beard, then to the mouth. Heat climbed under the stubble.

By afternoon the glances had stopped pretending to be accidents. Victor rolled his shoulders and the bulge shifted, thick enough that the seam strained. Darius’s mouth went dry. He wanted that weight on his tongue. He wanted to be put wherever those tattooed hands decided. The hunger sat between them on the boards, raw and mutual, while the site still pretended they were only colleagues.

When the whistle finally blew, Darius’s legs felt loose and his cock felt anything but. He was stuffing his gloves into his bag when Victor’s shadow fell across the lockers. Up close the man was a wall. The tattoos on his neck glistened. The bulge had not gone down with the heat.

“I drive past your way,” Victor said. His eyes stayed on Darius’s mouth. “Get in. I take you home.”

It was not quite a question. Darius nodded anyway, throat tight, and followed him across the lot to a dusty white work van. The cab smelled like hot vinyl, steel dust, and Victor. Darius dropped into the passenger seat and tried to keep his knees still. Victor started the engine, one huge hand easy on the wheel, the other resting high on his own thigh, close enough to that obscene swell that Darius could not look anywhere else.

They had barely cleared the site gate before Victor spoke again, calm as if he were talking about the weather. “You stared at my cock all day.”

Darius’s face burned under the beard. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Victor spread his legs wider in the seat. The work pants pulled cruelly tight. He palmed himself, slow, and the fat shape of him rolled under his hand, long and thick enough that Darius made a helpless sound. “You want it.”

“I want you to use me,” Darius said. The words came out rough and honest. “Hard. I don’t want to wait until we get to my place. I’ve been half hard since you showed up this morning, and I need you to put me where you want me.”

Victor’s mouth curved. He squeezed the bulge once, deliberate, and a low growl left his chest. “Say it again.”

“Use me,” Darius said, louder. “Fuck my throat. Fuck my ass. I want it filthy. I want you to wreck me in this van and not be polite about it.”

Victor checked the mirror, then the empty stretch of service road ahead. His tattooed fingers worked the button of his pants and dragged the zipper down just enough that the head of his cock pushed into view, flushed and heavy, already wet at the slit. He stroked himself once, open, right there in the cab, and Darius’s hand twitched toward his own lap.

“Not yet,” Victor said. “You don’t touch yourself until I say. We pull over. Back of the van. You get on your knees and you take what I give you. Yes?”

“Yes,” Darius said, breath shaking. “Pull over. Right now. I’m saying yes to all of it.”

Victor took the next turnout without another word, gravel popping under the tires, and killed the engine in the shade of a stand of trees well off the road. The lot behind them was empty. The only sound was their breathing and the tick of cooling metal. He looked at Darius, huge and certain, and jerked his chin toward the rear doors.

“Out. Then in the back. Clothes stay messy. I want you used, not pretty.”

Darius was already moving.

The cargo space was dim and hot, padded with a folded moving blanket and the smell of work. Victor hauled the doors shut behind them and the world narrowed to tattooed skin, broad shoulders, and the cock he freed the rest of the way from his pants. It was as fat as the bulge had promised, thick enough that Darius’s stomach flipped, heavy balls drawn up under a thatch of dark hair, the shaft veined and glistening. Victor fisted the base and stepped in until the slick head bumped Darius’s bearded mouth.

“Open.”

Darius opened. Victor did not ease in. He fed the thick length over Darius’s tongue in one relentless push, stretching his lips, crowding the back of his throat until Darius gagged and drool spilled into his beard. A huge hand clamped the back of his skull. Victor held him there, growling, hips rolling in short, mean thrusts that used his mouth like a hole.

“Schluck,” Victor snarled. “Nimm meinen Schwanz, du geile Sau. Deeper. I fuck this throat until you cry on it.”

Darius moaned around him and took it. Tears stung his eyes. Spit ran down his chin and onto Victor’s balls. Every time he choked, Victor’s grip tightened and the cock drove deeper, the fat head bullying past the clutch of his throat. Darius’s own cock throbbed untouched in his pants, leaking, desperate. He grabbed Victor’s thick thighs and pulled, asking for more, and Victor gave it to him, fucking his face in hard, wet strokes that slapped heavy balls against his beard.

“Look at you,” Victor said, voice shredded. “Big bearded Gerüstbauer on his knees for the new man. Du bist nur ein Loch für mich. Suck it. Get it wet. I am not finished with you.”

He pulled out with a filthy sound. A string of spit swung from Darius’s swollen lips to the shining head. Darius gasped, wrecked and grinning, and Victor spun him before he could speak. Strong hands yanked his pants and briefs down to his boots, baring his ass to the hot air. A rough palm cracked across one cheek, then the other, and Darius shoved back into it.

“Yes. Fuck. Use me.”

Victor spit into his hand, worked two thick fingers into Darius’s tight hole, and twisted until the muscle gave. The stretch burned bright and perfect. Darius braced on the blanket, forehead down, ass up, and pushed onto those fingers like he had been waiting all day to be opened.

“Bitte,” Victor growled against his ear, the German filthy and close. “Dein enges Arschloch will meinen Schwanz. I stretch you. I fuck this hole until it knows who owns the ride home.”

He lined up and drove in. The fat cock split Darius open in one brutal stroke, balls slapping his taint, and Darius shouted into the blanket, pleasure punching through the burn. Victor did not pause. He set a pounding doggy rhythm, huge hands locked on Darius’s hips, tattoos flexing as he hauled the smaller man back onto every thrust. The van rocked. Sweat dripped from Victor’s chest onto Darius’s spine. Each stroke dragged over that deep spot until Darius was babbling, beard scraping the blanket, cock swinging heavy and untouched between his thighs.

“Harder,” he begged. “God, harder, Victor. Wreck me. I can take it. I want it mean.”

“Du bettelst so schön,” Victor snarled, and gave it to him meaner. He folded over Darius’s back, one arm barred across his chest, and hammered in short, vicious thrusts that forced the air out of him. “Ich dehne dein Loch, du verdammter Kollege. Take it. Take every centimeter. This ass is mine after work.”

Darius came apart under him and still wanted more. “Flip me. I want to see you. Fuck me on my back. Please.”

Victor pulled out, manhandled him like he weighed nothing, and threw him onto the blanket. Darius’s boots knocked the wall. His pants stayed tangled at his ankles. Victor shoved his thighs up and wide, spit on his hole again, and sank back in to the root. Missionary put that enormous body over him, shoulders blocking the thin light, tattoos shifting as Victor braced and started to pound. The angle was deeper. Darius’s cock slapped his own stomach with every thrust, leaking across his abs, and he clawed at Victor’s arms and begged without shame.

“Yes, yes, fuck, just like that. Stretch me. Use your new colleague. I’m yours. Harder.”

Victor’s grin was feral. He pinned Darius’s wrists above his head with one hand and fucked him in long, crushing strokes, the fat cock dragging out until the rim clung and then slamming home again. “Ich fick dich kaputt,” he growled. “Hör zu, wie nass dein Loch ist. You love being used. Say it.”

“I love it,” Darius gasped, eyes wet, mouth open. “Love your cock. Love you fucking me filthy. Don’t stop. Breed the feeling into me. Harder, Victor, please, harder.”

Victor obliged. He let the wrists go only to hook Darius’s knees higher, folding him, and drove down until their sweat-slick chests stuck together and the beard scraped Victor’s throat. The van filled with the wet smack of skin, Darius’s broken moans, and Victor’s filthy German rolling over him like heat. Every thrust stretched him wider. Every growl made his cock jump. He was close, shaking, held right on the edge by the sheer size of the man using him, and he did not want it gentle. He wanted exactly this: dominated, manhandled, pounded until the only word left in him was yes.

Victor’s rhythm broke. A rough sound tore out of him. He buried himself once more, deep enough that Darius saw white, then yanked free with a wet pull and rose over Darius’s face and chest. His fist flew on the shining cock. Two strokes, three, and he came with a snarl, thick ropes of cum striping Darius’s beard, his open mouth, his sweaty pecs, hot and heavy and endless.

Darius lay there panting, painted, hole still clenching on nothing, and laughed once, wrecked and happy. Victor braced a hand on the van wall, chest heaving, that enormous body shining, and looked down at the mess he had made. Their eyes met. Both of them grinned, satisfied and a little stunned, the hunger finally spent for the moment.

Darius dragged a thumb through the load on his cheek and wiped it across his mouth, already tasting the next time. The ride home was not over. He already wanted the one after that.