Chapter 3: CHapter 3
The cool air from the new AC unit was a revelation. It transformed the cluttered office from a sauna into a bearable, almost pleasant, workspace. The hum of the compressor became a steady background note to the clicking of Ben’s keyboard and the rustle of Dave’s blueprints. For an hour, they worked in a silence that felt, for the first time, comfortably complicit rather than awkward.
Dave stood from his desk, groaning as he stretched his arms over his head, his spine emitting a series of soft pops. He peered out the freshly cleaned window at the crew packing up for the day, the late afternoon sun painting everything in gold. “Another one in the books,” he muttered, turning back. He grabbed the hem of his grey t-shirt—the one he’d worn all day, the one soaked with the honest sweat of a site walk in the blistering heat—and peeled it off in one smooth motion.
He tossed the damp cloth onto his chair. It landed with a soft, heavy thud. Standing there, topless, he ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper chest hair, his physique a testament to decades of physical labor rather than gym vanity. The muscles in his shoulders and back rolled under his skin as he reached for his water bottle, taking a long drink.
“Damn, that sun was brutal today,” he said, catching Ben watching. He didn’t seem to mind. “Hey, you got a clean one in that bag of yours? This one’s a biohazard.”
Ben’s heart did a funny little skip. He did have one. The grey one. The one Dave had given him yesterday, which Ben had defiled, worn, and then meticulously washed until not a trace remained. It was folded neatly at the bottom of his bag, a secret freshly laundered.
“Uh, yeah. I think so.” Ben’s voice was steadier than he felt. He rummaged, pulled out the shirt, and handed it over.
Dave took it, his fingers brushing Ben’s. “My old one again? You’re a regular laundry saint.” He didn’t put it on immediately. Instead, he leaned against the filing cabinet, crossing his arms, which made his biceps swell. He launched into a detailed question about a subcontractor’s invoice, his eyes sharp on Ben’s.
Ben answered, his words automatic, his focus splintered. Dave was just… standing there. The powerful curve of his pectorals, the dense trail of hair that disappeared into his work pants, the faint silvery scars from long healed nicks and cuts. The AC breeze kissed the sheen of sweat on his skin. Was this deliberate? A show? The logic from the afternoon returned, twisted and intoxicating: if Dave was offering this view, wouldn’t it be rude, a kind of insult, to look away? To not appreciate the craftsmanship?
So Ben watched. He let his gaze travel openly, appraisingly, from the broad shoulders down to the tight waist. He didn’t hide it. He saw the moment Dave noticed—a slight, almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of his mouth, a subtle shift in his stance that seemed to present his chest just a little more. He was enjoying it. The power of it. The attention.
Finally, with a slow, deliberate motion, Dave pulled the clean blue shirt over his head, working it down his torso. The familiar cotton now contained him once more. He balled up the sweat-soaked grey one from his chair. With a soft underhand toss, it sailed across the room and landed squarely in Ben’s lap.
The heat of it seeped through Ben’s khakis. The scent, musky and profoundly masculine, rose in an instant cloud.
Dave’s grin was all wicked edges. “I made sure to get it good and stinky for you,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He winked, grabbed his clipboard, and was out the door, leaving Ben alone with the humming AC and the nuclear warmth in his lap.
The door hadn't even clicked shut before Ben was moving. He scrambled to lock it, fumbling with the deadbolt. He stumbled back to his desk chair, the shirt clutched in a white-knuckled grip. He didn’t bother with pretense. He unzipped his pants, his cock already achingly hard, sprung free into the cool office air. He brought the grey cotton to his face first, inhaling deeply—pure, unadulterated Dave, salt and skin and sun.
He moaned into the fabric, his hips pushing up into nothing. He wrapped the shirt around his length, the rough, damp material a shocking, perfect friction. His other hand, slick with spit, trailed down, past his balls, pressing against his hole. The memory of Trent, the feel of a real cock in his mouth, the shock of Dave walking in, the profound, accepting look in Dave’s eyes later—it all collided into a desperate need for release. He pushed a finger inside himself, just one, curling it. The dual sensation—the rough shirt on his cock, the intimate pressure inside—drove him to the edge in minutes. He came with a choked, stifled cry, stripes of white painting the already-stained grey cotton, his body shuddering against the office chair.
He sat there for a long moment, breathless, coated in the evidence of his own desperation. Slowly, he cleaned himself up with the shirt, folding the new, wet stains into the old ones before stuffing it back into his bag. The walk to the subway was a blur.
On the swaying train, the adrenaline finally faded, replaced by a creeping anxiety about Trent. He pulled out his phone.
Ben: Hey. Sorry again about today getting awkward.
The reply was almost instant.
Trent: forget it. my bad. you wanna hang out? clear the air.
Without overthinking, Ben sent his address. An hour later, he was rinsing popcorn bowls in his tiny sink when a knock, firm and confident, echoed through the apartment.
Trent stood in the hallway, changed into jeans and a loose hoodie, smelling of soap and cold air. “Hey,” he said, his easy grin back, though his eyes held a trace of apology.
“Hey. Come in.”
Trent stepped in, taking in the ordered cosiness. “Nice place. Very you.” He flopped onto the couch. “So, seriously. What happened after I bailed? He fire you? Yell?”
Ben sat in the armchair, tucking his legs under him. “No. The opposite.” He recounted Dave’s return, his calm assessment, the words “Men have needs.” He saw Trent’s shoulders relax, his smile turning genuine.
“No shit? That’s… surprisingly chill.”
“Then,” Ben continued, a new, strange confidence bubbling up, “later, he took off his sweaty shirt and asked me for a clean one. I had the one he gave me yesterday. He stood there for like five minutes, just talking, while I… watched.” Ben felt a flush creep up his neck. “Then he put the clean one on and threw the sweaty one at me. Said he made sure to get it extra stinky for me.”
Trent’s eyebrows shot up. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Get the fuck out. He said that?”
“Word for word.”
“Where is it?” Trent’s voice dropped, intrigued.
Ben gestured to his bag by the door. “In there. But, uh… I got it a little dirtier after you got me all worked up this afternoon.”
Trent was on his feet in a second. He fetched the bag, unzipped it, and pulled out the crumpled grey shirt. He held it up, the evidence of Ben’s orgasm a stark, damp patch in the fluorescent light. Without a second of hesitation, Trent brought it to his face and inhaled deeply, his eyes closing. A long, low groan vibrated against the fabric. “Fuck, Ben,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “This is so hot.”
The breath left Ben’s body. Seeing this golden, confident man immersed in the combined scent of Dave’s sweat and his own cum was the most potent aphrodisiac he’d ever experienced.
Trent lowered the shirt, his eyes dark. “You got any weed?”
They smoked a joint on the couch, passing it back and forth, the tension melting into something thick and syrupy. The shirt lay between them like a sacred relic. Trent would pick it up, take a hit, then press it to Ben’s nose, watching his eyes flutter. Then Ben would do the same to Trent. Their knees touched. Then their hands, brushing over the fabric.
Trent took another deep pull from the shirt, held it, then exhaled slowly. He looked at Ben, really looked, and closed the distance.
The kiss wasn't tentative. It was hungry, exploratory, tasting of weed and stale coffee and shared desire. Trent’s hands were in Ben’s hair, pulling him closer. Ben’s fingers clutched at Trent’s hoodie. They broke apart, breathing heavily, only for Trent to grab the shirt again and rub it over Ben’s cheek, his neck, before diving back in to kiss him there, inhaling the layered scent from his skin.
“Poppers?” Ben gasped.
“Hell yes.”
The sharp, dizzying rush cracked the world open. Colors brightened, sounds magnified. Trent pushed Ben back onto the couch, yanking his own jeans and briefs down just enough. Ben followed suit. They lay side-by-side, stroking each other, their mouths meeting in sloppy, desperate kisses, the used shirt now wadded up and pressed between their faces as they breathed each other’s air.
Trent moved down, his mouth hot and insistent on Ben’s cock, his technique devastating, all swirling tongue and perfect pressure. Ben cried out, his head thrown back. He returned the favor, losing himself in the weight and taste of Trent, the sounds he made.
Then Trent nudged him onto his stomach. Ben complied, a shiver of anticipation running through him. He felt Trent’s hands spreading him, and then a warm, wet breath ghosted over his most private hole. He tensed.
“First time?” Trent murmured.
Ben could only nod, his face buried in a cushion.
"But you're clean?"
Ben nodded. "For my prostate massager."
“Excellent. Try to relax. Just feel it”
The first touch of Trent’s tongue was a lightning bolt of pure, shocking sensation. It wasn't penetration; it was a slow, broad, wet licking that made Ben jerk and gasp. Trent held his hips firm. He did it again, slower, more deliberately, circling the tight furl of muscle. Then he focused, the tip of his tongue pressing, probing gently, insistently.
A strangled moan was torn from Ben’s throat. It was intimate beyond anything he’d imagined—servile and worshipful and profoundly filthy. Trent ate him out with a dedicated focus, licking, probing, sucking gently on the tender flesh. The sensation built, a deep, spreading heat that radiated from his center, utterly different from the internal pressure of a toy. This was live-wire stimulation, directly on the nerve-rich ring of muscle. It was overwhelming. Humbling.
“Trent… oh my god…”
Trent grunted in response, doubling his efforts, his stubble scratching the sensitive skin of Ben’s inner cheeks. The pleasure spiralled, coiling tightly with the pressure on his cock from the couch cushions. He was babbling, incoherent, on the very brink.
“Come on,” Trent urged, his voice rough. “Come for me.”
That was all it took. Ben’s orgasm crashed over him, wave after wave of intense, draining pleasure, his body convulsing against the couch. As the last tremor subsided, he felt Trent shift, heard his ragged breathing, and then felt warm streaks land on his lower back. Trent collapsed beside him, spent.
For a while, the only sounds were their slowing breaths and the hum of Ben’s computer. The apartment smelled of sex, weed, and sweat.
Trent finally stirred, sitting up to clean himself off with the now-legendary t-shirt. He pulled his clothes back on. “So, Ben,” he said, his tone easy but firm. “I should say. I don’t really do the serious thing. Girlfriends, boyfriends… it’s not my scene. Gets messy.” He looked at Ben, his blue eyes clear. “But I love having buddies. You know, to hang with. On occasion. When the mood strikes.”
Ben, still boneless and glowing, turned his head on the cushion. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was all too perfect. No expectations. No drama. Just mutual, convenient, blistering fun. It was everything he’d wanted but never dared to ask for.
“That,” Ben said, his voice hoarse but sure, “is perfect for me.”
Trent left with a final, easy smile and a promise to text. The apartment held his echo for hours, a charged stillness that felt like potential rather than loneliness. Ben slept deeper than he had in months, the phantom sensations of the evening playing behind his eyelids.
Morning brought the grey light of routine. He dressed carefully, selecting khakis and a button-down with a newfound lack of anxiety. The memory of Dave’s shirt, now washed clean and neatly folded in his bag, was a warm coal in his stomach. He expected the usual rhythm: the hum of the AC, the scent of fresh coffee, Dave’s booming greetings to the crew. Instead, he walked into a wall of tense silence.
Dave was already at his desk, shoulders hunched over a spreadsheet. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. “Morning,” Ben offered, hanging his bag.
Dave grunted without looking up. “The Marshall invoices are fucked. Get Peterson on the horn and figure out why they shorted us the conduit.” His voice was flat, devoid of its usual gruff warmth.
Ben nodded, swallowing his confusion. He worked quietly, efficiently, sorting the paperwork problem in under twenty minutes. When he presented the solution, Dave merely scowled and nodded.
The rest of the morning unfolded in a similar key. A crew foreman came in with a question about a materials delivery and left red-faced after a barked reprimand. Dave snapped at a cold call on the phone, his fingertips drumming an agitated rhythm on the steel desk. The air in the office grew thick, pressing down on Ben’s skin. This wasn’t the boss he knew—the one who threw sweaty shirts and winked. This was a pressure cooker about to blow.
At noon, a lull fell. Dave stared out the window, jaw working. Ben watched him for a full minute, the coiled energy in his frame obvious. He took a breath. “Dave?”
“What?” The reply was a snap.
“What’s going on with you? You’ve been biting everyone’s head off since I got in.”
Dave turned slowly, his expression thunderous. For a second, Ben thought he’d crossed a line. Then the anger seemed to deflate, leaving a raw frustration in its wake. Dave ran a hand over his face, the sound harsh against his stubble.
“Sorry, kid,” he muttered, the word unfamiliar in his mouth. “It’s not you. You’re doing great.” He leaned back, the office chair groaning. “It’s… domestic. Had a huge blow-up with my partner two nights ago. Same old shit. Now she’s…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely as if words failed him.
“She’s what?”
“Withholding,” Dave said, the word dropping like a stone. “Her weapon of choice. I need it, Ben. Twice a day, minimum, or I turn into this.” He gestured at himself, a representation of pure, agitated need. “You’re seeing the crazy. The engine’s got too much damn fuel and no release valve.”
The confession hung in the cool, recycled air. Ben processed it. The sheer physical requirement of it. “So… just jerk off,” he said, his own voice quiet. “That’s what I did for years. Until yesterday.”
Dave gave a short, humourless laugh. “It’s not the fuckin’ same, alright? It’s mechanics. I like the… the exchange. Giving it, getting it back. The heat of someone. Wanking’s just punching a clock.” He looked at Ben then, really looked, and the desperation in his eyes was a tangible thing, a low thrum of need that filled the space between the desks. It was the same thunder Ben had seen banked behind his confident stare, now unleashed and searching.
Ben understood. He understood the difference between a silicone imitation and the living weight of Trent. He understood need. A calm clarity settled over him. He stood up and locked the door.
He didn’t speak. He walked around his desk, the vinyl floor silent under his shoes. He rounded the corner of Dave’s desk. Dave watched him, eyes dark and unreadable.
Slowly, Ben sank to his knees on the hard floor. He looked up at Dave, then reached for the button of his jeans.
Dave’s hand shot out, catching Ben’s wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but full of warning. “You sure you want this?” His voice was a gravelly scrape. “I’ve fucked around with all of my assistants. Which is why I’m not allowed female ones anymore. But a mouth…”
He let the sentence hang, his gaze searching Ben’s for any flinch, any doubt.
“…is a mouth. Right.” Ben finished for him, his own voice steady. He pulled his wrist free, not breaking eye contact. “I’m your assistant. You need assistance with this. So I’m assisting.”
A slow, hungry smile spread across Dave’s face. He released his grip and settled back in his chair. “Then assist.”
The denim was rough under Ben’s fingers. He undid the button, pulled down the zipper. The fabric parted. He nosed against the cotton of Dave’s briefs first, inhaling the dense, musky scent that was uniquely his, amplified by a morning of stored frustration. He mouthed him through the cloth, feeling the impressive, heavy heat and girth already present. A low groan rumbled above him.
He pulled the briefs down. Dave sprang free, thick and ruddy, veins prominent. Ben didn’t dive. He started with licks, slow, flat-tongued strokes along the underside from root to tip. He kissed the head, a soft, closed-mouth press. He took his time, exploring the shape and weight of him with a reverence born of long fantasy and recent, sharp education. He savoured the salty pre-come that beaded at the slit.
“Christ,” Dave breathed, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.
Ben took him into his mouth, just the first few inches, letting his tongue swirl. He relaxed his jaw, remembered the practiced choke of his toys, the frantic, lonely sessions that had all been preparing him for this exact, real weight. He sank deeper, his throat opening in a slow, deliberate surrender. He was glad for every synthetic inch he’d trained on. This was what they were for. This was the exam.
“Yeah. Just like that.” Dave’s voice was tight.
Ben found a rhythm, a deep, steady pumping of his head, his hand working the base. He listened, his entire being focused on the feedback: the hitch in Dave’s breath, the tensing of his stomach muscles, the twitch against his tongue. Dave’s hips began to roll up, meeting his descent, gently at first, then with more insistence.
Finally, Dave’s hands came to cradle Ben’s head, not forcing, but guiding. “Gonna fuck your mouth now, Ben. Take it.”
Ben moaned an affirmation, the vibration drawing another sharp gasp. Dave shifted to perch on the very edge of his chair, giving himself leverage. He began to thrust, slow, measured delves that pushed Ben to his limit. Ben focused on his breathing through his nose, on relaxing, on taking it. The feeling of being used, so precisely as he’d imagined, was a dizzying high. It was messy, wet, profoundly intimate. The sounds filled the quiet office.
It didn’t take long. Dave’s control shattered with a guttural, punched-out curse. His hips stuttered, driving deep, and he held there. Ben felt the hot, pulsing release flood his mouth. He swallowed convulsively, taking everything Dave gave him.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Dave softened, slipping from Ben’s lips. Ben knelt back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His own arousal was a painful, straining ache in his pants.
Dave’s eyes, now clear and sated, drifted down. He saw the obvious tent in Ben’s khakis. Without a word, he reached for the hem of his own blue t-shirt and pulled it off, tossing it onto the floor beside Ben.
He lifted his arm, exposing the damp, dark-haired hollow of his armpit. The scent that rose was raw, animal, purely Dave. He cupped the back of Ben’s head and pulled him firmly into that warm, salted cave.
“Go on,” he said, his voice a post-coital rumble.
Ben didn’t hesitate. He pressed his face in, inhaling the potent, salty musk. He licked the damp skin, the taste a shocking, carnal tang. The smell, the taste, the dominance of the act—it short-circuited him. He fumbled with his own fly, freeing his aching cock. He stroked himself fast and rough, his face smothered in Dave’s armpit, his tongue working.
It was over in less than a minute. He came with a muffled cry, his release spurting onto the discarded blue t-shirt on the floor between Dave’s boots. He collapsed against Dave’s side, spent.
Dave lowered his arm and looked at the mess on the shirt, then at Ben’s flushed, mortified face. A slow, genuine grin spread across his features. “So that’s what it’s all about,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “I was right.”
“I’m… sorry,” Ben choked out, suddenly awash in embarrassment.
“Don’t be.” Dave’s hand, surprisingly gentle, tilted Ben’s chin up. He leaned down and kissed him, deep and thorough, tasting of shared salt and completion. “You’re the best damn assistant I’ve ever had.”
He pulled back, his expression turning pragmatic. “But you know this can’t be… a thing. Outside of this. When it’s needed.”
Ben nodded, relief mixing with a strange pride. “I don’t want a thing either. Honestly.” He took a shaky breath, a reckless laugh bubbling up. “I think I’m gathering quite the harem of men, to be honest.”
Dave’s eyebrows knitted. “Harem?”
“Yeah. You. And Trent. From yesterday. He came over last night after… you know.”
Dave went very still for a second. A calculated, appraising look flashed in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. He shook his head, chuckled, and clapped Ben on the shoulder. “You’re full of surprises. Good for you, kid.” He stood, pulling his briefs and jeans up. “And thank you. Sincerely.”
He stretched, the bad mood seeming to evaporate from his muscles like steam. He glanced at the dirty shirt on the floor, then at Ben, and that familiar, teasing glint was back. “Now get that cleaned up. And let’s see about those Gutierrez change orders.”
Ben got to his feet, tucking himself away, a ridiculous, buoyant lightness in his chest.