The Construction Worker Part 1
Chapter One: Rhett & Miles
By the time the clock ticked past twelve-thirty, I was already loosening my tie. Yes it was hot, and not because the office was any busier than usual. It was just one of those days. Constant requests flooded my inbox, a stream of client calls lined up for the afternoon, and a weekly progress meeting with my boss who seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out anything I’d missed. My tie was suffocating me. I had deadlines, pressure and things to do. I felt a little detached from all of it, almost like an out-of-body experience.
I fled my desk to go get lunch, stepped into the heat outside, and walked aimlessly through the same streets I passed every day on my way to work. It smelled like roasted nuts from the vendor at the corner, mixed with gasoline and the faint trace of sweat rising from the pavement. The usual city noise wrapped itself around me, bus brakes squealing, people on phones, the mechanical whir of a delivery cart. But everything felt far away.
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I picked up a deli roll out of habit, though I wasn’t really hungry. Something with roast beef and horseradish, too much bread, barely any sauce. I ate it as I entered the lower level of the shopping center, chewing and swallowing without thinking, surrounded by polished floors and mannequins staring into space with more purpose than I had. I told myself I was just killing time before heading back, maybe clearing my head a little, maybe just avoiding my inbox for a bit longer.
Eventually, I ended up on the upper floor, drifting toward the public toilets tucked into the corner behind the management offices. The lights buzzed softly overhead and the air inside was cooler, sterile, tinged with the chemical sweetness of citrus cleaner and whatever body spray the last teenager had used. I stepped into the last stall because I needed just a few minutes away from everything.
I sat down with my trousers still buttoned, resting my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it might give me some spark. I heard water running, the occasional squeak of a sneaker against the tile, someone pissing at the urinal followed by the whoosh of a hand dryer.
That’s when I noticed the hole.
It was low, wide, and worn at the edges. I wondered who the fuck took the time to do such a thing? I stared through it, in awe at the ridiculousness of such an intrusion of privacy.
Someone was on the other side, so I looked away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some movement, so naturally I glanced through it again, even moving my head down a little.
I was just a bit curious.
Through the hole, I saw a hand, tanned and rough stroking a huge, thick cock. This guy’s dick was like something from a porn flick, uncut and milky white. Too invested, I leaned in slightly and that’s when I saw the sleeve.
A construction shirt, faded high-vis yellow, streaked faintly with dust and sweat like he’d come straight off a site. And stitched just above the curve of his shoulder, red block letters spelled out a name.
Rhett.
I recognized the logo. I’d passed the site a hundred times on the walk to work, barely glancing at the scaffolding or the men bent over power tools and lumber. But that logo, that name, was impossible to miss. And now here he was, or someone from that crew, sitting on the other side of a wall, legs spread, cock in hand, completely unaware that I was staring.
