Sweat and Muscle: Skinny Meets Dominant Coworker

The inventory room had no windows and no mercy. By nine the concrete held the day’s heat like a closed fist, and the late shift dragged on under a single buzzing fluorescent that made every surface look greasy. Rafael wiped his forearm across his forehead and watched a drop slide off his wrist onto the clipboard. Twenty-four, skinny enough that the company polo hung off his collarbones, he had been the office assistant long enough to know which pallets were miscounted and which men didn’t bother pretending they liked the paperwork. He had also been staring at the same man for three weeks, and he was getting worse at hiding it.

Fabian came back from the dock with a hand truck and a dark ring of sweat already blooming through his gray tank. Twenty-nine, built like the warehouse had been pouring concrete into him for a decade, he filled the doorway and then some. The tank clung. Rafael’s eyes went where they always went: the heavy shelf of pectorals, veins standing under the wet cotton, traps thick enough to throw a shadow on his neck, shoulders round and hard as loaded sacks. Heat rolled off him in a wave that reached the clipboard before he did.

“Last row’s short two,” Fabian said. His voice sat low in his chest. He set the hand truck down and rolled one shoulder, and the muscle jumped under the soaked fabric.

“I’ll mark it.” Rafael’s pen hovered. He could smell him from six feet—salt, clean soap burned off hours ago, the dense musk of a man who had been lifting since noon. His own shirt stuck to the small of his back. Between his legs his dick had been half-hard since Fabian walked in, a stupid insistent throb he tried to angle behind the clipboard. It didn’t work. The polo was thin. He shifted his weight and felt the head drag against the cotton of his briefs, and his face went hot in a way that had nothing to do with the room.

Fabian’s eyes flicked down. Not long. Long enough.

They had been doing this since the first week of the heat wave. Glances over shrink-wrap. Fabian catching Rafael’s stare on the cut of his arms and holding it until Rafael looked away first. Rafael finding reasons to bring the count sheets down himself instead of leaving them in the office tray. Neither of them had said a word that couldn’t be explained as work. The air made excuses impossible. Every time Fabian lifted a case the tank rode up, and the lower ridges of his abs showed, slick, deep enough to hold sweat in the grooves. Rafael’s mouth had gone dry so many times he had started bringing a second bottle of water he never drank.

“You gonna stand there or you gonna count,” Fabian said. Not unkind. Amused. He turned to the last pallet and the motion pulled the tank tight across his back, lats flaring, a dark stripe of sweat running down the spine of the fabric. Rafael watched a bead break free at the nape and disappear under the collar. His dick jumped. He pressed the clipboard harder against his stomach and hated himself a little for how obvious he was, and wanted Fabian to notice anyway.

“Counting,” he said, and his voice came out thinner than he meant.

Fabian glanced over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth moved. “Yeah. I can see that.”

They worked the row in silence that wasn’t silence. Rafael called numbers. Fabian moved cases with an ease that made Rafael’s arms ache just watching—forearms corded, veins like cables under the skin, biceps peaking every time he curled a box up to the top shelf. Sweat ran from the hollow of his throat into the dark hair at the neck of the tank and vanished. The room smelled like cardboard, hot plastic, and him. Rafael’s slender wrists looked breakable next to those hands. He kept imagining them on his hips and had to stop, breathe, read the same SKU twice.

When the last count was logged, Fabian peeled the tank up to wipe his face and didn’t pull it back down right away. The fabric bunched under his chest. His stomach was a stacked wall, each ridge shining, a trail of sweat cutting through the hair below his navel and soaking into the waistband of his work pants. Rafael stared. He knew he was staring. His pulse was in his throat and in his dick and he couldn’t make his eyes behave.

Fabian lowered the shirt slowly. The smirk was already there.

“You like what you see, skinny?”

Rafael’s mouth opened. Nothing useful came out. Fabian stepped in—one stride, then another—until the heat coming off his body was a physical thing against Rafael’s chest. Up close the sweat stains under his arms were nearly black, the cotton molded to the thick swell of each pec, a vein pulsing along the inner line of one biceps. He smelled overwhelming. Rafael’s knees went a little loose.

“I asked you something.” Fabian’s voice had dropped. Command sat in it easy, like he had been waiting to use it. “Eyes on my pits. On my abs. Three weeks of that. You hard right now?”

“Yes.” It came out before Rafael could dress it up. His face burned. He didn’t look away. “I’ve been hard every time you walk in here. I didn’t—I didn’t know if you wanted me to say it.”

Fabian’s hand came up and caught Rafael’s jaw, not rough, firm enough that Rafael felt the strength held in check. Thumb on his cheek. Calluses. “I want you to say it. All of it.”

“I want you.” Rafael swallowed. The admission loosened something in his chest that had been knotted since the first glance. “I want you to—take over. Tell me what to do. I’ve been thinking about your body on me since the second week. I want that. If you want it too.”

“I want it.” Fabian’s thumb stroked once, slow. “Been watching that little ass in those khakis and wondering how loud you’d get if I put you where I want you. You submitting to me tonight? Not a game where you tap out and sulk. You want me dominant, you say so, and you get all of it. You can stop me anytime. One word. Otherwise I run this.”

“I want you to run it.” Rafael’s voice shook and steadied. “I want to submit. I’m saying yes. Green, or whatever you need. Just—yes. Please.”

Fabian’s grin went sharp and hungry. “Please already. Good boy.” He leaned in until his mouth was at Rafael’s ear, breath hot, the musk of his underarm close enough to taste on the air. “Back room. Door locks. You’re gonna learn what all this muscle tastes like before I fuck you.”

“Yes,” Rafael said again, and followed.

The back room was worse. A storage cage with a dead fan, a scarred worktable, and stacks of empty crates that smelled like pine and dust. The heat sat thicker here, no vent, the single bulb yellow. Fabian shot the bolt and the click went through Rafael’s stomach like a hand. He turned, already pulling the tank over his head, and the sight of him stripped to the waist knocked the breath out of Rafael’s lungs.

Two hundred and fifty pounds of him, easy, and almost none of it soft. Pecs like slabs, nipples dark and tight, a deep cleft between them glazed with sweat. Shoulders capped and round. Arms hanging heavy, veins mapped from wrist to delt. His abs weren’t a show piece; they were work muscle, thick, ridged, shining, the skin over them flushed from the shift. Sweat gathered in the cuts and ran. The smell of him filled the small room—salt, skin, the sharp clean bite of a man who had earned every drop.

“On your knees,” Fabian said.

Rafael went down. The concrete was warm through his khakis. Fabian stepped in until that chest was inches from his face, heat pouring off it, and set a hand on the back of Rafael’s head.

“You stared at it. Now you get it.” He guided Rafael forward, not a shove, a placement, and Rafael went willingly, mouth open, into the sweat-soaked center of that chest. The first lick was salt and heat and skin. He moaned into it before he could stop himself. Fabian’s pec flexed under his tongue, the muscle jumping hard, and a fresh run of sweat slid into Rafael’s mouth.

“That’s it. Eager little muscle slut.” Fabian’s voice had gone rougher. “Lick it. All of it. You wanted the sweat, you clean it.”

Rafael did. He dragged his tongue up the deep line between the pecs, over the swell of one and then the other, chasing the salt into the crease under the muscle where it pooled. Fabian tasted like work and want. Every time Rafael’s tongue found a new ridge Fabian flexed it for him—pec, then the other, the flesh gone rock-hard under his mouth—and called him slut again, low and pleased, like the word was a reward. Rafael’s dick strained against his zipper. He didn’t touch it. He hadn’t been told to.

“Arms,” Fabian said, and lifted one.

The pit was dark, soaked, the hair there matted flat with sweat. The smell hit harder up close, thick and male, and Rafael’s whole body answered it. He pressed his face in because he wanted to, because Fabian’s hand was in his hair and the permission was the whole point, and he licked. Long strokes. The salt stung his tongue. He sucked at the skin, greedy, and Fabian groaned above him, the sound vibrating through the thick trap into Rafael’s mouth.

“Fuck. Yeah. Get in there. Both of them. Show me what a skinny little office boy does when a real body walks past his desk.”

Rafael switched when he was moved, licking the other pit clean, mouthing the lower curve of the pec, tracing the vein that ran along the underside of Fabian’s arm with the flat of his tongue. His own shirt was plastered to him. Sweat ran down his spine. He was dizzy with it and hard enough to hurt, and when Fabian finally pulled his head back Rafael’s lips were shiny and his eyes were blown wide.

“Stand up. Strip. All of it.”

Rafael’s hands shook on the buttons. Polo, khakis, briefs—he kicked them aside and stood narrow and flushed in the yellow light, ribs showing when he breathed, dick curved up against his stomach, already wet at the tip. Fabian looked him over like inventory he intended to use. Then he shoved his own pants and briefs down and stepped out of them, and Rafael made a sound he didn’t recognize.

Fabian’s cock was thick, heavy, flushed dark, the head slick. His thighs were massive, quads sweeping out, the muscle jumping as he shifted his weight. Sweat shone on the insides of them. He stroked himself once, slow, eyes on Rafael’s face.

“Crate. Bend over it. Hands on the wood. You want this cock, you ask.”

“I want it.” Rafael was already moving, palms on the crate, back arched, the position obscene and perfect. “Please fuck me. I want you to—I want all of it. I have lube in my bag. Front pocket. I brought it last week. Hoping.”

Fabian laughed, short and hot, and found it. The sound of the cap was loud in the still room. Cool slick fingers pressed between Rafael’s cheeks, circling, then pushing in with a care that didn’t match the filth of his mouth. Rafael pushed back onto them and gasped.

“Greedy,” Fabian said, working him open, two fingers, then three, twisting until Rafael was panting and rocking. “You been clenching on nothing for weeks thinking about this. Tell me.”

“Yes. Every night. Your hands. Your—fuck—your cock. Please, Fabian, I’m ready, I want you in me, I want you to pound me, I said yes, I’m saying it again—”

“Good.” The fingers left. The blunt head replaced them, hot and huge, and Fabian gripped Rafael’s hip with one hand and pushed in.

The stretch burned sweet and deep. Rafael’s mouth fell open against his own forearm. Inch by thick inch Fabian filled him, not rushing, not gentle either, until his hips were flush to Rafael’s ass and the heat of his stomach sealed against Rafael’s lower back. He held there. Rafael could feel the pulse of him, the sheer size, the way his own body fluttered and yielded.

“Color.”

“Green,” Rafael got out. “Green, don’t stop, please move—”

Fabian moved.

Standing, braced, he fucked him in long driving strokes that shoved the crate an inch across the concrete. Each thrust seated him to the root. Rafael cried out and didn’t care who might be left on the floor; the bolt was shot and the only man who mattered was the one splitting him open. Fabian’s free hand planted beside Rafael’s on the wood. He flexed. The arm went from thick to ridiculous—biceps peaked, veins standing like rope, forearm cabled—and he did it again on the next stroke so Rafael could see it in his peripheral vision, power made visible while that cock hammered into him.

“Look at it,” Fabian grunted. “That’s what’s fucking you. All this muscle. You take it so fucking well for such a skinny little thing.”

He shifted his stance and the angle changed, and Rafael saw stars. Fabian’s back worked above him; Rafael twisted enough to watch the lats spread and lock, sweat flying off the flex of his shoulders every time he drove in. The slap of hips was wet and obscene. Sweat from Fabian’s chest dripped onto Rafael’s spine and ran down. Rafael pushed back to meet him, greedy, moaning into the crate, his own dick swinging untouched and leaking onto the wood.

“Harder,” he begged. “Please, harder, I can take it, I want to feel you—”

Fabian gave it to him. The pace turned punishing and perfect, deep enough that Rafael’s thighs shook, the head of that cock dragging over the spot that made his vision white at the edges. Fabian’s hand left the crate and wrapped Rafael’s throat—not squeezing, just holding, a claim—and the other stayed iron on his hip. “My eager little muscle slut,” he said against Rafael’s ear, breath wrecked. “Dripping for it. Clenching like you were made to get used.”

Rafael came close and Fabian felt it, slowed, pulled out with a filthy sound that made them both groan. “Not yet. On your back. I want to watch your face while I crush you.”

The concrete was hard. Fabian dragged a folded moving blanket from a shelf and threw it down, and Rafael went onto it willingly, knees up, open, shaking. Fabian knelt between his thighs, hooked Rafael’s legs up over his shoulders, and folded him. The mating press put all of that weight forward. Two hundred and fifty pounds of hot, flexing muscle settled over Rafael’s slender frame—not dropped, controlled, but inescapable—and Rafael’s world narrowed to chest and cock and the smell of sweat. Fabian pushed back in and the angle was devastating, deeper than the crate, Rafael bent in half under him, pinned, owned.

“Fuck,” Rafael sobbed, and it was praise. “You’re so heavy. So big. Don’t—don’t hold back, I want it, I want all of you on me—”

Fabian fucked him like that, short brutal strokes, hips snapping, the great slabs of his pecs flexing an inch from Rafael’s mouth. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto Rafael’s lips. Rafael licked it up without being told and Fabian snarled, pleased, and drove harder. Every muscle in his torso worked—abs contracting in thick ridges against Rafael’s stomach, arms locked, shoulders bunched. He was a furnace. Rafael couldn’t move except to take it, and he didn’t want to move. The pressure, the heat, the relentless thick slide inside him, Fabian’s low filthy mouth at his ear telling him how tight he was, how pretty he looked split open, how good a slut he was for muscle—Rafael clawed at those shoulders and held on and begged for more in a voice that cracked.

“Gonna fill you,” Fabian said, rhythm starting to break. “But not like this. I want you on it. Up.”

He pulled out again, sat back on the blanket, cock standing huge and shining with lube and sweat, and hauled Rafael over him. “Reverse. I want you facing away. Ride it. Feel every inch of what’s under you.”

Rafael swung a leg over, back to Fabian’s chest, and sank down.

The drop onto that cock punched a moan out of both of them. Seated, Rafael’s narrow ass spread over Fabian’s thick thighs, the heat of the bigger man’s stomach sealed to his back. He rose and dropped, finding the rhythm, and Fabian’s hands clamped his waist and helped, lifting him like he weighed nothing and slamming him back down. Rafael could feel all of it—the packed muscle of the thighs flexing under his own, the hard wall of abs grinding against his spine every time he bottomed out, sweat slicking every point of contact so they slid and stuck and slid again. He reached back blindly and got a handful of Fabian’s flexing pec, squeezed, and Fabian bucked up into him hard enough to knock the air out.

“That’s it. Use it. Ride my cock like you mean it, you desperate little—fuck—yeah, bounce. Let me see that skinny back working.”

Rafael rode. His thighs burned. Sweat ran into his eyes. Every downward stroke took Fabian to the hilt and the thickness spread him open all over again, a deep satisfying ache that built and built. Fabian’s hand wrapped his dick at last, rough and perfect, stroking in time, and Rafael’s rhythm fell apart into desperate little grinds.

“I’m—Fabian, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Cum on my cock. I want to feel you squeeze.”

Rafael broke. It tore through him in long pulses, spilling over Fabian’s fist and his own stomach, his hole clenching hard around the thick length inside him. He cried out, high and wrecked, and kept moving because he couldn’t stop, chasing the aftershocks while Fabian swore and thrust up into the tight clutch of him.

“Taking my muscle and my—fuck—gonna cum, gonna pump you full—” Fabian’s arms locked around Rafael’s waist, hauling him down and holding him there, and he came with a guttural sound, hips jerking, flooding Rafael in hot thick spurts Rafael could feel. He ground up through it, flexing everywhere, pecs and abs and thighs gone iron, sweating and shaking and still pushing in like he wanted to leave a mark.

They stayed like that, panting, the room spinning in the heat. Then Fabian eased them down onto the blanket, Rafael on his back again, and covered him. Not fucking now. Pinning. The full sweaty weight of him settled, cock still half-hard inside, and he started a slow grind—slick torsos sliding, chest to chest, the ridges of his abs dragging through the mess on Rafael’s stomach. Salt and skin and cum and heat. Rafael’s arms went around that broad back and held on, dazed and smiling into the curve of Fabian’s neck.

“Perfect,” Fabian murmured, mouth against his temple, still rolling his hips in lazy filthy circles. “Look at you. Skinny little thing took every inch. Took my muscle like you were built for it. Took my seed and clenched like you wanted to keep it. Best fuck I’ve had in years. You hear me?”

“I hear you.” Rafael’s voice was hoarse. He was smiling so hard his face hurt. “I loved it. All of it. Don’t—you can stay on me. I like the weight.”

“Good. ’Cause I’m not done smelling you.” Fabian nosed along his jaw, licked a line of sweat from his throat, and kept grinding, slow, the flex of his chest a steady pressure Rafael could feel in his ribs. Praise kept coming, low and dirty and warm: how tight, how eager, how pretty he looked with his face wrecked and his hole full, how Fabian was going to think about this every time Rafael walked past with a clipboard and tried to look professional. Rafael laughed, breathless, and tightened his legs around those massive hips.

They lay in it until the sweat began to cool at the edges and the bulb’s buzz reasserted itself. Fabian pulled out carefully, both of them hissing, and didn’t roll off. He braced on his forearms so the weight was a choice and looked down at Rafael with something hungry still alive in his eyes.

“Same shift Thursday,” he said. “I come in at eight. You lock this door at eight-ten. I want you naked and bent over that crate before I even get my boots off. And I want your mouth on my chest again before I fuck you. You planning on being here?”

Rafael’s mind was already moving—clearing the late counts early, telling the front office he had inventory overtime, stashing a better blanket and more lube in the bottom drawer of the worktable where no one looked. He could feel the ache of Fabian in him and wanted it again before the week was out. Wanted worse. Wanted Fabian’s hands on his throat for real next time, wanted to be held down and used until his voice gave, wanted to kneel in this heat and worship every thick ridge until Fabian dragged him up and split him open all over again.

“I’ll be here,” he said. His fingers traced the sweat-slick vein on Fabian’s biceps, already scheming the hour, the lock, the way he’d have his shirt off and waiting. “Eight-ten. Door bolted. And I’m bringing a towel this time so you can keep me under you longer.”

Fabian’s grin was all teeth and promise. “That’s my boy.”