Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The apartment door clicked shut, sealing Ben inside his own world once more. The echoes of the construction site—the growl of machinery, the sharp scent of sawdust and male sweat, the booming laughter of the crew—still vibrated in his skull. But here, the only soundtrack was the hum of his aging refrigerator and the distant thrum of city traffic.
His bag thumped to the floor.
That night, as soon as he was through the door, Ben's imagination collided the events of his first day with his favourite pastime. The careful professional veneer he’d maintained for eight straight hours shattered like glass. He didn’t even bother with the lights; the neon sign from the laundromat across the street painted his living room in washes of blue and pink, giving the clutter a nocturnal, underwater feel.
He went straight for his bag, right at the bottom, beneath his notepad and untouched lunch, he pulled out the folded blue cotton. Dave’s shirt. It was stiff in one particular spot, a subtle crust he’d created himself at his new desk this afternoon, a frantic, hidden moment of insanity after Dave had stripped it off in front of him and discarded it like trash. The memory alone made Ben’s breath hitch.
He shucked his own clothes, letting them pool on the floor. The apartment air was cool on his skin. He pulled Dave’s shirt over his head. It swamped him, the shoulders hanging past his own, the hem brushing his thighs. He brought the fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. Underneath the stale, faded smell of his own release was something else, something essential and musky—a ghost of detergent, a hint of plain deodorant, and beneath it, the warm, sun-baked scent of the man himself. It was probably mostly imagination. He didn’t care.
A shudder ran through him. He grabbed the bottle of poppers from the nightstand, uncapped it, took a long, dizzying pull. The chemical rush hit his brain like a thunderclap, melting away the last remnants of daytime restraint, turning his blood to fire. The room pulsed with the laundromat’s neon rhythm.
He fell onto the bed, rubbing the coarse cotton over his chest, his stomach, down to his hard, leaking cock. The fabric scratched deliciously. He fumbled in the drawer again, his collection of silicone spilling onto the sheets. He grabbed one, then another, pushing against them, testing their give, searching for a feeling that matched the imprint Dave had left in his mind—that confident, almost arrogant solidity.
The thick, veined one. The dark grey one. He coated it liberally with lube, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. He pressed the tip against himself, breathing through the familiar sting of initial resistance, the poppers making the sensation swim and blur into pleasure. He pushed back, taking it slowly, until he was fully sheathed, a low groan tearing from his throat.
This was it. This was the one that felt like Dave. Not just the size, but the unforgiving density of it.
Ben rode it, his movements becoming frantic, desperate. The shirt became a sweaty second skin. He buried his nose in the collar again, the combined scents of poppers, lube, cum, and that phantom musk of another man forming a brutal, perfect perfume. His hips pistoned, the dildo hitting that spot inside him with relentless, manufactured accuracy.
"Dave," he gasped, the word a broken thing. "Oh, god, Dave."
The fantasy unfolded, vivid and debasing. It wasn't tender. It was the Dave from the site—commanding, a little rough, taking what he wanted. Ben mumbled into the fabric, a stream-of-consciousness plea. "Just like that—use me, come on, right there at the desk—fuck, everyone would see—don't care—"
He knew it would never happen. Dave was straight. Happily married, happily sleeping with female clients, with his easy confidence and his wandering eye for the previous assistants. He was a fantasy, a safe focal point because he was utterly unobtainable. That knowledge didn’t dull the hunger; it sharpened it, made the solitary act feel simultaneously futile and wildly liberating.
His cries grew louder, echoing off his bedroom walls, lost in the city's nightly murmur. The pleasure built, a coil tightening to its breaking point, amplified by the chemical haze and the profound, silly intimacy of wearing the man's shirt. When he finally came, it was with a choked shout, his body seizing, spasming around the silicone impostor. Vision whited out. For a few seconds, there was nothing but raw, shuddering sensation.
He collapsed onto his side, spent, the dildo still lodged inside him. The neon blue light traced the line of his spine. He panted, coming down slowly, the frantic energy of the day and the session bleeding away into a deep, post-coital calm.
He lay there for a long time, listening to his heartbeat slow. Carefully, he pulled the toy out, set it aside on a towel. He didn't take the shirt off. He curled up on his side, pulling his knees to his chest, swimming in the oversized cotton.
A slow, languid smile spread across his face. The job was good. The men were hot. The pay was great. And here, in this private sanctuary of shadows and scent, he could pleasure himself with no worries, no consequences, just the pure, uncomplicated fire of a fantasy. It was enough. For now, it was more than enough. He felt utterly, deeply content. That contentment lingered through a deep, dreamless sleep, and fuelled him the next morning.
He arrived at the Walker Construction site office an hour early, the dawn air still cool and damp. Dressed in old gray sweats and a faded tee, he’d brought supplies: glass cleaner, all-purpose spray, a pack of heavy-duty trash bags. The place was a tomb, silent except for the buzz of the fluorescent light he flicked on.
It was worse in the daylight. Dust coated every surface, a fine gray powder over file cabinets, the dormant computer monitor, and years of accumulated paperwork. Empty coffee cups, some growing interesting molds, dotted every flat space. The vinyl floor was tacky in patches.
Ben got to work with a kind of frantic efficiency. He bagged the trash first, the rustle of plastic loud in the quiet. He wiped, he sorted, he organized. He found a filing system from 2018 and made a mental note to burn it later. The physical labor felt good, a tangible contrast to the ghostly pleasures of the night before.
He was on his knees, attacking a stubborn stain on the floor near the filing cabinet, when the door swung open. A shaft of harsh morning light outlined Dave’s frame. Ben froze, cloth in hand, feeling suddenly exposed in his cleaning clothes.
“Well, hell,” Dave said, his voice a rasp of genuine surprise. He stepped inside, his boots silent on the now-clean floor. He turned a slow circle, taking in the gleaming surfaces, the organized chaos now contained in boxes, the absence of grime. “Look at this.”
Ben scrambled to his feet, wiping his hands on his sweats. “Just… figured it could use a touch-up.”
“A touch-up?” Dave laughed, a short, approving sound. “Kid, you performed a damn exorcism. It hasn’t looked this decent since we moved in.” He clapped a heavy hand on Ben’s shoulder, the grip warm and firm through the thin cotton of his tee. “Seriously. Thank you.”
The praise bloomed hot in Ben’s chest. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Dave’s eyes swept the room again, landing back on Ben. “Now you gonna work in those sweeps? Or you got real clothes hiding somewhere?”
“Oh. Right.” Ben’s confidence wavered. He’d brought his work clothes—khakis and a button-down—in his bag. He gestured lamely toward the back room, a tiny space with a rusted sink and a broken chair. “I’ll just, uh, go change in there.”
Dave was already shrugging out of his own jacket, heading toward his desk. He didn’t look up from the mail he was flipping through. “What for? It’s just us. You saw me in my skivvies your first day, remember? Consider us even.”
Ben’s throat tightened. It was a casual, logical statement. It also felt like a test. He grabbed his bag and retreated to the relatively open space beside the filing cabinet, turning his back as much as the cramped room allowed. He could feel Dave’s presence, a tangible weight in the air.
He pulled his tee over his head, the sudden cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. His fingers fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats. He kept his movements small, controlled, trying to shrink into himself.
“So, you get the lay of the land yesterday?” Dave asked, his voice conversational. The rustle of papers continued. “The crew giving you any grief?”
“No, sir. Everyone was fine.” Ben stepped out of his sweats, quickly bending to retrieve his khakis. He could feel, rather than see, the moment Dave’s eyes landed on him. The conversation didn’t stop, but the quality of the attention in the room shifted, grew denser.
“Good. They’re animals, but they’re my animals.” A pause. The appraisal was silent, but absolute. Ben felt it travel the length of his spine, the slightness of his frame, the pale skin. He yanked his button-down on, fingers trembling as he did the buttons wrong and had to start over.
Once dressed, he turned, finding Dave leaning back in his chair, watching him with an unreadable, placid expression. “Comfortable?” Dave asked.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Ben cleared his throat, seizing on a practical concern to ground himself. “Is the AC ever getting fixed? It’s gonna be an oven in here by noon.”
Dave snorted, a dismissive sound. “Asked Cindy about it for two years. Was like talking to a wall. ‘I’ll look into it, Dave.’ Never did.”
“Right.” Ben sat at his own desk, waking the computer. By lunchtime, after three phone calls and some creative reasoning with a supplier about a rush order, he had a confirmation email. “Unit’s being delivered and installed tomorrow afternoon,” he said, swiveling his chair around.
Dave was staring at him, a slow smile spreading. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“I’ll be damned.” Just then, Dave stood and opened a small duffel bag by his desk, rummaging through it. He cursed under his breath. “Forgot a clean shirt. Drove here straight from the gym. This one’s ripe.”
An idea, equal parts brilliant and insane, clicked in Ben’s mind. His pulse hammered in his ears. “I have one,” he heard himself say. His voice sounded strange.
He went to his bag and pulled out the blue t-shirt. It was immaculate now, freshly washed and neatly folded, every trace of his prior obsession scrubbed away. He held it out.
Dave took it, his fingers brushing Ben’s. “My old one? You cleaned it?”
“Figured it was wasteful to just throw out a perfectly good shirt,” Ben mumbled, the lie smooth and practiced.
“Man, you are a gift that keeps on giving.” Without ceremony, Dave grabbed the hem of his damp gray tee and pulled it over his head. Ben’s gaze flickered, against all his willpower, taking in the solid expanse of Dave’s torso, the definition earned by labor, not gym mirrors, the dark trail of hair below his navel.
Dave pulled the clean blue shirt on, the cotton stretching across his shoulders. He balled up the sweaty gray one and tossed it in a gentle arc toward Ben. It landed with a soft, damp thud on Ben’s desk. “You’re on a roll. One more for the laundry pile.”
He grabbed his keys, heading for the door. “Hold down the fort. Site inspection.”
The door slammed. The silence rushed back in, louder than before. Ben stared at the discarded shirt. It lay there, a crumpled, intimate offering. He picked it up. It was warm, damp with honest sweat, smelling purely of salt, effort, and man.
Did he know? The question was a silent scream. Was this a coincidence, a friendly gesture, or something else? A game? Ben’s fingers clenched in the fabric.
Later, after a silent lunch, the thought was a coiled spring in his gut. The office was empty, thick with afternoon heat. He locked the front door, a simple click that felt monumental.
He did it right at his desk again, in the chair Dave had just vacated. He unfurled the grey shirt, pressing it to his face, breathing in the raw, uncomplicated scent. It was better than the one from yesterday. This was a scent more dense, more real.
His other hand worked under his desk, frantic and efficient. It was faster this time, driven by a sharper, more dangerous hunger. The fantasy wasn’t a distant, safe imaginary. It was the weight of Dave’s appraisal that morning, the casual throw of the shirt, the unasked question hanging in the air.
He came with a choked gasp, striping the gray cotton with thick, sudden release. He sat there, panting, the evidence dark and wet on the fabric. Carefully, methodically, he folded the shirt, the stained side inward. He placed it in the very bottom of his bag, a secret heavier than any before.
He unlocked the front door. The afternoon sun streamed in, oblivious. The ritual was complete, but the contentment from the night before was gone, replaced by a thrilling, terrifying momentum.
The next day, things began to settle into a routine. “You said the AC guy’s due sometime after lunch?" Dave asked around a mouthful of sandwich later, leaning in the doorway. “You got this handled. I’m running to the supplier.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Ben said, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near ‘constricted.’
The office felt cavernous after Dave left. The silence was different. It wasn’t the quiet of being alone; it was the quiet of wanting. Ben tried to focus on the spreadsheet glowing on his screen, the numbers blurring into meaningless patterns. He needed to get himself off, but he knew there wasn't time. The knock at the glass door, when it came, was sharp and confident.
The man standing in the blistering afternoon sun looked like he’d walked off a different set entirely. Late twenties, maybe. Sun-bleached hair cut short, a swimmer’s broad shoulders stretching a white company t-shirt. He grinned, all easy confidence, and tapped the logo on his chest. “AC rescue. You baking in here?”
“It’s getting there,” Ben said, unlocking the door.
“Trent.” He stepped in, a gust of heat and clean sweat following him. His eyes, a bright, assessing blue, scanned the office and then settled on Ben. “So you’re the new famous Ben. Dave said you were the one who finally got this call scheduled. Legend.”
“He said that?” The pleasure was instant, warm.
“He did. I bumped into him on the way in.” Trent’s grin widened. He dropped his heavy tool bag with a thud and immediately hooked his fingers under the hem of his shirt. “Mind if I lose this? Gonna get dirty.” He didn’t wait for an answer, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion.
Ben’s breath stuck. Trent’s torso was a defined, golden map of muscle, a stark contrast to Dave’s rugged build. He wore only a tight gray tank top now, his arms bare and ropy with veins. His jeans were worn and snug, hugging the powerful line of his thighs and the pronounced swell of his crotch. Work boots, scuffed and heavy, completed the picture.
“So you run the whole show here?” Trent asked, kneeling by the old wall unit. His voice was conversational, but his presence was an event.
“Just the admin. The office. Since Monday.”
“Looks clean.” Trent glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes catching Ben’s. “Real clean. Dave’s last girl didn’t give a shit, from what I heard.”
He worked for a few minutes, the sounds of panels being unscrewed loud in the room. Then he stood, stretching his back with a groan, and walked over to Ben’s desk. He perched on the corner of it, one boot resting on the floor. The worn denim between his legs was right there, at Ben’s eye level. The heavy scent of him, soap and honest labor, filled the space.
“Need a minute,” Trent said, taking a swig from a water bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Man, I’m wiped. Was out late last night.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Trent’s gaze was direct, amused. “Met up with this person. Kind of a random thing. Fucking incredible, though.” He took another drink, his throat working. “Love that first part, you know? Getting them all worked up. The way they get wet for you. Just soaking. And the sounds they make when they come.” He shook his head, a private smile on his face. “Nothing like it.”
Ben’s face was on fire. He couldn’t look away. The words were liquid, pouring into him, filling a space that was already primed and aching. His own khakis felt suddenly, painfully tight.
Trent watched the flush spread down Ben’s neck. He leaned forward, his movement casual. He reached out, his fingers brushing Ben’s temple. “You got a little…” He tucked a stray hair behind Ben’s ear, his calloused thumb grazing Ben’s cheek. He didn’t pull his hand back. His voice dropped, a low, intimate rumble. “You seem like a guy who appreciates that stuff. Getting wet. Making a mess. Am I right?”
The world telescoped down to the point where Trent’s thumb met his skin. Ben’s mouth was dry. He managed a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Trent’s smile changed. It lost its casual friendliness, gaining a sharp, predatory focus. He slid off the desk, his movement deliberate. He stood in front of Ben, so close the heat from his body was a physical pressure. He guided Ben's hand towards his crotch, not forcing, just suggesting.
Ben sank to his knees on the cool vinyl floor. The reality was surreal, a dream spun from his own most frantic fantasies. He fumbled with the button of Trent’s jeans, his fingers clumsy. Trent helped, shoving the denim and his briefs down just enough.
He was thick and heavy in Ben’s hand, already half hard, the skin hot and silken. Ben’s experience was theoretical, born of silicone and lonely hours. This was living weight, a pulse, a scent that was profoundly human. He leaned in, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The first touch of his lips made Trent gasp, a sharp intake of breath. Ben took him slowly, letting his mouth adjust, relying on instinct and the memory of what looked good in porn. He listened, desperately, for cues in Trent’s breathing, in the subtle tensing of his stomach muscles. He used his tongue, his hand where his mouth couldn’t reach.
“Fuck,” Trent whispered, the word strained. His hand came to rest on the back of Ben’s head, not pushing, just holding. “Jesus. Just like that. Yeah.”
The encouragement was gasoline on a fire. Ben found a rhythm, earnest and deep, losing himself in the mechanics and the mounting proof of his own competence. Trent’s thighs began to tremble. His breaths came in shorter, ragged bursts. The muttered praise grew more fervent, filthier, a soundtrack that drowned out every other thought in Ben’s head.
The door swung open. Dave stepped inside, taking in the scene in a single, frozen instant: Ben on his knees, Trent half-undressed, the air thick with the sound of wet, frantic motion.
Dave’s expression didn’t change. He blinked once. “My mistake,” he said, his voice utterly flat. He stepped back, pulling the door shut with a soft, definitive click.
Trent jerked, a full-body flinch, and pulled himself from Ben’s mouth. “Shit. Oh, shit, man.” He scrambled to pull himself together, fastening his jeans with frantic hands. “I am so sorry. Fuck. I just got you in trouble with your boss. That was so fucking unprofessional.”
Ben stayed on his knees, dazed, the taste of Trent still on his lips, the world crashing back in with dizzying speed. He was going to be fired. He was going to be fired and it was all true, everything he was, right there on the floor for Dave to see.
“It’s… it’s fine,” Ben managed, getting unsteadily to his feet.
“No, it’s not.” Trent finished securing the new AC unit with a few, efficient motions, his previous ease gone. He shouldered his tool bag. He pulled a card from his wallet and placed it on Ben’s desk. “That’s my personal cell. Call me. Seriously.” He looked genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry, Ben.”
Then he was gone, leaving the new AC humming to life, blowing a stream of cold, sterile air into the charged silence.
Ben stood there, trembling. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He straightened his shirt. He was still trying to formulate some kind of defense, some pathetic plea, when the door opened again a few minutes later.
Dave walked in as if returning from a normal errand. He went straight to the small fridge, pulled out a water, and took a long drink.
“Dave, listen, I—” Ben’s voice cracked.
Dave held up a hand, cutting him off. He swallowed his water and capped the bottle. “You don’t gotta explain.” He leaned against his desk, studying Ben. “We’re even now.”
Ben stared, uncomprehending. “Even?”
“The woman. Carla. Monday afternoon.” He nodded toward the cleared space on his own desk. “You left the office so I could have some alone time with her. I know you smelled the sex when you came back in. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t give me a look.” He shrugged one massive shoulder. “This is a worksite. Men have needs. Sometimes the opportunity presents itself and you gotta take it. Simple as that.”
He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disgusted. If anything, his gaze held a spark of reassessment, a newfound, concrete respect. “Hell, you sealed the deal and got the AC fixed in the same afternoon. That’s efficiency.”
Ben couldn’t speak. The fear and shame that had been solidifying inside him shattered, leaving a confused, electrified void.
Dave pushed off the desk and clapped Ben on the shoulder, the same way he had the day before, but this time his grip lingered a fraction longer. “Just lock the front door next time. For Christ’s sake. Unless you want me to walk in on you,” he finished with a grin. He shook his head, but he was almost smiling. “Now. Where are we on the Anderson lumber invoice?”