Sweat and Sawdust

Between the Studs

I’d seen him around for weeks. We’d both landed on the site at the same time, but back then he was just another pair of steel caps and shoulders, lost in a sea of them. It wasn’t until this week, when most of the crew vanished, like their contracts had self-destructed, that I actually started seeing him.

We’d worked near each other all week, close enough to smell each other’s sweat, but apparently too focused to say hi.

That week, the whole place felt hollow, and I mean quiet like the building was holding its breath. I was on skirting boards, window trims, interior doors, and Scott kept gliding past, threading wires into walls like he’d memorized the blueprints.

By Friday, I was wrecked but pushing through, and determined to finish the conference room doors and skirting boards before the heat cooked what was left of my patience. I was ahead of schedule, bored out of my fucking skull in this dusty town, and banking on a long weekend of cold beer and over-analyzing and self-reflection. If I kept that pace, I could leave a whole two days earlier than expected.

I was a little distracted, a little fried, and maybe already mentally at the hotel bar, while I stretched out on the floor and lined up the skirting boards like they might flirt back.

That’s when Scott walked in, toolbox in hand, like he hadn’t just become the most distracting thing in the building. I glanced away, as if that might put out the fire starting in my gut.

“Mind if I work in here too?” he asked, setting it down like it wasn’t about to ruin my concentration for the rest of the damn afternoon.

I rolled onto my back and saw him properly. Not just another blur of boots and biceps, this time, it landed.

His navy-blue short-sleeved shirt looked like it had been bought before he bulked up. It clung across his arms and back like it wasn’t ready to admit defeat. The shorts were faded and worn, hugging his ass in ways that made concentration impossible.

So when he walked in that Friday and asked me if we could work in the same room, I noticed his hairy legs were solid, and that light beard, deep blue eyes and a face that should be in movies, not wiring electricity.

And a deep voice that made even the walls stop and listen.

“Hey, I don’t mind,” I sat up, then jumped to my feet and walked over to him. “We haven’t met, I’m Andy,” I said, offering my hand.

He smiled, dusted his hands on his shorts, and walked over. “Hey, I’m Scott!”

Three things happened immediately after he shook my hand.

The first was the grip. Firm, strong, like he crushed walnuts with his fist when he was bored.

The second was that jolt I felt all the way down my spine when our eyes connected. My eyes dropped without thinking, catching the way his chest pushed against that too-tight shirt.

And the third? That was the problem.

Because while I was still holding his hand and trying to remember how words worked, my cock got hard. In my suddenly very tight shorts.

Panic flared. I quickly spun to face the wall and I stayed facing the wall for a moment, pretending to study the trim, willing my cock to calm the fuck down.
Behind me, I heard the scrape of his toolbox lid opening, the soft clink of metal on metal as he sorted through it.

When I finally turned back, he was crouched by the far wall, running cable through the base of the socket. His shirt had ridden up just enough to show the dip of his lower back, exposing that tuft of hair right above firm butt cheeks. I forced my eyes away and grit my teeth.

We worked in silence for a while, just the sound of tools and occasional sound from other parts of the construction site. Every so often I caught myself glancing over. His forearms flexed as he stripped wire, muscles standing out like cords. He worked with this quiet focus, like nothing could break his concentration.

But he’d completely shattered mine.

I tried to focus on the skirting board as I nailed it into place, but it felt like he was everywhere. I could still smell him and hear the low grunt when he stood up from a crouch.

At one point we both reached for the same pencil on the floor and our hands brushed.
Just for a second.

“Oh! Is that one yours?” I quickly checked my pockets, and screwed my eyes. My pencil was where it should be. I held it out, “My mistake!”

He grinned. “No problem. I do it all the time. I swear I have a drawer full of pencils at home.”

We resumed working for a while, while I intentionally faced away from him.

“So, where are you from?” Scott asked me after a short silence.

I was in the process of hoisting the first window to make sure we had a good fit.

“Atlanta,” I told him as I grunted and pushed the window into place. “How about you, Scott?”

I stood back and assessed. The fit was perfect, which almost never happened.

“Miami,” he said, not looking in my direction.

But when I turned, I couldn’t stop looking at his ass.

Those next couple hours passed quickly, and around 4pm, I made my way downstairs to start packing up, when I realized the few others on site had already gone. I locked my tools away, cleaned up after myself and after some of the others.

As I was about to head upstairs to make sure I had everything, and to say goodnight to Scott, I saw him come downstairs towards me.

“I’m done!” he said with a grin, toolbox in hand.

“Yeah, me too. Been a long one.”

As he passed me, his scent hit again, and our arms brushed.

My cock stirred.

“Hey, Andy. Is everyone gone?” he asked, turning toward me, still holding the toolbox like it weighed nothing.

I shrugged. “I assume so. It’s too quiet.” I started back up the stairs, grabbed the last of my gear, and locked everything in the secure locker downstairs.

When I went looking for him, he was standing with a beer, staring out what would eventually be an office window.

I stood in the doorway and watched him, or more accurately, I watched his ass. If he stuck around much longer, I wasn’t going to be able to hide what he was doing to me.

“Staying awhile?” I asked.

He turned, a little surprised. “Well, it’s either this or drink alone at the hotel bar until Monday.”

I stepped inside. “Yeah. These trips get lonely. How much longer for you?”

He let out a sigh. “Just another week. You?”

“Same. Thank God.”

He smiled, so I moved beside him, both of us looking out through the unfinished window.

“Want a beer?” he asked, already heading for the breakout room.

“You’ve got a spare?”

He didn’t answer, just laughed, so I followed.

He opened the common fridge.

It was full.

“Jesus. What the fuck?” I said, jaw dropping. “Why is this fridge better stocked than the hotel bar?”

He grinned. “Most of the guys finished up today. The foreman thought they were all staying till tomorrow, so he went out and loaded up.”

“And they bailed?”

“They fled. Not even a thank you.”

I walked over and took the beer he handed me.

“You know we’re not supposed to keep alcohol on the premises, right?” he said, trying to sound serious but failing.

I nodded. “Big fines. They’d probably make us build a new wing just to pay them off.”

Our eyes locked. He tilted his head like he was about to confess something.

“You know what that means?”

I raised an eyebrow as my pulse raced again. “What?”

He cracked his beer open. “We have to drink them. All of them.”

We both laughed, but something about his smile didn’t feel entirely like a joke.

Scott and I dragged two chairs and a crate for a table out from the kitchen and sat at the edge of the site, facing the thick, untrimmed bushland that hadn’t yet been flattened for progress.

Nature just stood there, quiet and watchful, like it was waiting to see what we’d do next. A possum or bird or ghost rustled somewhere in the dark green tangle, and the trees just stood there, judging us for turning their friends into window frames and conference rooms.

I clinked my beer against his. “Better than the hotel bar.”

He nodded. “And free beers! I’ve been staring out at this mess for weeks. Figured I’d finally sit with it before it’s gone.”

The beers did their job. We talked about how exhausting it is living in hotel rooms, the weird quiet of small towns, the money, the bullshit, our cities. Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about the time.

Two beers later, I asked, “another?” I held up my empty.

He just tilted his head slightly, a yes.

I went inside and grabbed two more.

When I came back out, he was facing the building, pissing against the bush like it was an old friend.

His cock was out.

And he didn’t appear to be in any rush to put it away.

He stared up at the sky, like he was doing it for the sunset’s benefit while I stared at his cock. I told myself not to look, and that we were just two guys sharing beers, but I looked anyway.

I brought the beers over to where we had been sitting, eyes refusing to behave, and when I looked again, he caught me. And smiled.

He didn’t react, or even turn away. He just finished pissing like I wasn’t even there. Or maybe exactly because I was. Just turned with that same relaxed grin, like his cock swinging back into his shorts wasn’t a thing and walked back.

“Nothing like pissing outside,” he said, sitting down and cracking open another beer. “I swear, it’s the one part of camping I actually miss.”

I smiled. “Agreed.”

I put my beer down and wandered toward the same bush like it wasn’t a performance, unzipping as I went. My skin felt flushed, not from the beer but from his eyes still on me. The way he’d stood there, cock out, staring up at the sky like he wasn’t just taking a piss, like he was waiting to be watched. I couldn’t shake it. My cock was already heavy in my shorts, because it knew that he was going to watch, and for a few seconds, I thought I might get stage fright.

“Hope you don’t mind,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, finally starting to piss.

He shrugged. “It’s a free country. Besides, I owe you a look.”

I laughed. “Well, enjoy the show.”

As darkness descended, I tried to act casual, but I could feel him watching. Not just glancing, but watching. My spine tingled as I let the stream go, cock swinging slightly in the breeze like it was putting on its own little show. And Scott? He didn’t blink.

By the time I walked back, feeling a little self-conscious, avoiding his stare, the air around us had changed.

I picked up my beer and turned to sit down.

That’s when I saw it.

The tent in his shorts. Not a little swell, but a full push of fabric that made my throat tighten. There was no hiding that thing. His cock was hard and massive and right there, and suddenly I was sweating under my shirt.

I swiveled, unsure what to do. As I sat, and took another sip of my beer, I turned to Scott who hadn’t spoken.

His blue eyes just stared.

“What?” I said, trying not to acknowledge the hard cock in his shorts.

“That was kind of hot.”

I laughed. “Do you want me to go back and do it again slower?” But this time I did scan down and see it. His shorts barely hid it when it was soft, and his boner was impossible to miss. It was big.

He grinned, like he didn’t know it made him even sexier. Then he too looked down at his hard-on. His hand didn’t reach for it, but mine twitched with the urge to. I swore the beer was bubbling hotter in my gut. My cock pressed hard against the denim, and I shifted in my seat like movement might trick it into softening

“Ooops. Must be the beer,” he said, but stared like he was holding me there with his eyes, like if he kept looking long enough I’d unzip, walk over, and give him exactly what we were both pretending not to think about.

When he looked at my shorts, it was clear I had my own tent.

I smiled. “It’s definitely the beer.”

He tipped his head back and drained the rest of the beer, then stood up.

“Another one?”

I nodded.

He passed behind me and my breath caught. For a second I thought he’d keep walking.

Then he stopped.

Quick as lightning, his hand reached down and grabbed my boner. For that second it was in his hand, I had the urge to jump up and grab him.

“Definitely the beer,” he said, laughing as he strolled off to get more.

For me it was definitely the beer. I was a lot more confident than I would have been an hour earlier. I was also relieved. I’d been telling myself this couldn’t happen, we were work colleagues and it would be unprofessional. But he’d made the first move, so I could always blame him for anything that might happen.

When Scott came back this time, he passed me the beer, then walked off to piss again.

This time, I had no issues staring. I was starting to hope this was going exactly how I’d fantasized earlier it would. Nor did I bother to hide what my shorts couldn’t.

He watched me as he did his business, with a cheeky smile. I started wondering if after this, he’d just get back to his hotel alone and that’s how he did things.

But as he finished, he shook it many times. Then slowly stroked it, watching me watch him.

I put my hands on my cock, setting the beer down and squeezed through the denim.

He didn’t tuck it away as he walked back to our seats, taking another sip of his beer.

Lay the subscribe button down on a wooden table, then get a chainsaw and hold it above. Don’t move away until it upgrades to paid.