Chapter 4: Breaking in the New Hire
The morning air in the truck was thick with the smell of cheap coffee and diesel. Dave drove with one massive hand on the wheel, his work boot heavy on the accelerator. Adam sat stiffly in the passenger seat of the pick-up, wearing new, dark jeans and a plain grey t-shirt—Dave’s idea of “site appropriate.” He looked impossibly neat, like a librarian who’d wandered onto a building site.
“You nervous?” Dave asked, his eyes on the road.
“No,” Adam said, too quickly. He was staring at his own reflection in the side window, the world blurring past. “It’s just data entry and phone calls. I can handle phone calls.”
Dave grunted. “It’s also Rodge and Jimmy. They’re like dogs. They’ll sniff out weakness. You just stare ’em down, yeah? Don’t let ’em see you sweat.”
They’d left the house in a careful ballet. Emily had kissed Dave goodbye at the door, a quick peck. She’d squeezed Adam’s shoulder. “My two men, off to conquer the world,” she’d said, beaming. The normalcy of it was a tight band around Adam’s chest. In the truck, the ghost of Dave’s cum was still inside him, the subtle, persistent fullness a secret between them and the silicone plug.
The site was a symphony of controlled chaos. The groan of machinery, the sharp ping of hammers, the shouted curses that carried over the dust. Dave parked up beside a grimy Portakabin. “Home sweet home,” he said, nodding at it.
The office was exactly as Dave had described: a sweaty, cluttered box. Blueprints were unfurled and weighted down with dirty mugs. Safety posters curled at the corners. The air conditioner growled like a dying animal, struggling against the heat. On the wall, a faded calendar displayed a woman in neon bikinis, her smile worn away by sunlight and time.
Adam’s desk was a small, formica table in the corner, with a dusty computer from another decade. Dave’s desk was larger, buried under paperwork.
“Right,” Dave said, shrugging off his hi-vis jacket. His t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. “First job. Get this mess in some kind of order. Then you can start calling the suppliers on that list. And for Christ’s sake, if Rodge comes in asking for a ‘long weight,’ don’t give him one. He’ll have you standing there holding a spanner for an hour.”
Adam nodded, already organizing the piles with a methodical precision that made Dave’s head hurt to watch.
The morning passed in a wave of administrative sludge. Adam typed quickly and accurately. He navigated the ancient purchasing system with a quiet frustration that manifested only in a slight tightening of his jaw. Dave came and went, his voice a booming instrument that shifted from genial to furious depending on who was on the other end of his radio.
At one point, the door swung open and two men filled the doorway. Rodge was built like a fridge, with a beard that seemed to consume most of his face. Jimmy was wiry, with permanent squint lines around his eyes.
“Heard you got a new secretary, Dave,” Rodge boomed, his eyes landing on Adam. “A bit pretty for this place, innit?”
Adam didn’t look up from his screen. “The concrete delivery for Plot Seven is delayed until tomorrow afternoon,” he said, his voice flat. “You might want to re-task your crew to the internal fittings on Plot Five this afternoon to avoid stand-down time.”
Rodge blinked. Jimmy smirked.
Dave leaned back in his creaky chair, a proud, possessive glint in his eye. “Told you. Brain on him. Now fuck off, some of us are managing a site.”
The men left, laughing. When the door closed, the room seemed to shrink. The hum of the computer, the rattle of the AC, the sound of Dave’s pen scratching on paper. Adam could feel Dave’s gaze on him, a physical heat on the back of his neck.
“Handled that well,” Dave said, his voice lower now, private.
“They’re simple creatures,” Adam replied, still not looking up. “Predictable.”
A heavy silence descended, different from before. It was loaded, pressing in from the dusty windows. Dave shifted in his chair. The image of Adam from the night before, folded in half, begging for more, flashed behind his eyes. The memory of the plug he’d pressed into him that very morning twisted in his gut.
He stood up. The movement was sudden. He walked to the office door, turned the lock. The click was obscenely loud in the small room.
Adam finally looked up. His expression was unreadable, but his breath hitched.
Dave crossed the room in three strides. He didn’t speak. He put his hands on the formica desk and shoved. Adam’s chair rolled back with a squeak. Dave grabbed him by the waistband of his new jeans and hauled him to his feet, spinning him around to face the large blueprint table.
“Dave—” Adam started, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a question.
“Quiet.” Dave’s voice was a gravelly command. He pushed Adam forward, bending him over the faded drawings of foundations and plumbing lines. He yanked Adam’s jeans and boxers down to his knees in one rough motion. The cool air hit Adam’s skin, followed by the warm, calloused spread of Dave’s hands on his ass. Dave’s thumbs rubbed over the base of the plug, a deliberate, claiming pressure.
Adam dropped his forehead onto the cool paper, a shudder running through him. He was exposed, on display in the gritty office light. Anyone could walk past the window. The thought sent a violent thrill through him.
He heard the rustle of Dave’s work trousers, the zip. Then the blunt, slick head of Dave’s cock was pressing against him, alongside the silicone. “You’re gonna have to make room,” Dave grunted, and pushed.
The stretch was immense, breathtaking. Adam cried out, the sound smothered by the blueprint. Dave worked himself in, an inexorable, burning invasion, forcing the plug aside until he was fully seated, his body flush against Adam’s. He stayed there, buried deep, both of them panting. Dave leaned over him, his broad chest covering Adam’s back, his mouth at Adam’s ear.
“This is your office now,” he whispered, echoing Adam’s words from the basement. “You get fucked in it.”
He began to move. It wasn’t the slow, exploratory rhythm of the night before. This was raw, urgent, a claiming. Each thrust rocked the table, making the pencils and scale rulers jump. The pre-cum and lube made wet, filthy sounds. Adam gripped the edges of the table, his knuckles white, every nerve ending screaming. The contrast was everything—the clinical detail of the blueprints under his cheek, the brutal, animal reality of what was being done to him.
Dave fucked him like he was trying to rewrite the very foundations on the paper beneath them.
A fist hammered on the door.
Both men froze. Dave’s cock pulsed inside Adam.
“Dave! You in there? Need a sign-off on the steelwork!” It was Rodge.
Dave’s hand clamped over Adam’s mouth. His other arm wrapped like an iron bar across his chest, holding him still, impaled. Adam’s eyes were wide, staring at the door.
“Busy!” Dave barked, his voice remarkably steady, though his hips gave a tiny, involuntary grind that made Adam whimper into his palm. “Come back in ten!”
“Alright, keep your hair on!” Rodge’s footsteps receded.
The second they faded, Dave began moving again, harder now, spurred on by the danger. The fear of discovery had melted into fuel. Adam was delirious with it, pushing back against each thrust, his own cock hard and trapped against the underside of the table. Dave’s hand left his mouth and snaked down, roughly jerking him off in time with his pounding rhythm.
It was fast, brutal, and over in minutes. Dave came with a stifled roar, his teeth sinking into the fabric of Adam’s shirt as he emptied himself deep inside, adding to the mess already there. The feel of it triggered Adam’s own climax; he came over Dave’s fist and the dusty floor below, his body clenching tight around Dave’s shaft, milking him dry.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the dying rattle of the AC. Dave slowly pulled out. Adam’s legs wobbled, but Dave held him up, his hands gentling now on his hips. He tucked himself away, then carefully, almost tenderly, pulled Adam’s jeans back up over the slickness and the still-present plug.
He turned Adam around. Adam’s face was flushed, his hair messy, his eyes brilliantly alive. Dave kissed him, a deep, possessive kiss tasting of sweat and salt. “First day,” Dave murmured against his lips. “How’s it going?”
Adam let out a shaky, incredulous laugh. “Job’s full of surprises.”
Dave unlocked the door just as Rodge returned. The big man glanced between them. Dave looked like he’d been moving heavy equipment. Adam was sitting perfectly straight at his computer, but his colour was high.
“Got that form,” Rodge said, handing it over.
“Cheers.” Dave scrawled his signature. “Anything else?”
“Nah. Just… warm in here, innit?” Rodge said, his eyes lingering on Adam for a second too long before he left.
The afternoon was a masterpiece of suppressed tension. Every time Dave walked past his desk, his hand would brush Adam’s shoulder. Every time the phone rang, their eyes would meet. Adam felt the evidence of Dave inside him with every shift in his chair, a secret, slowly leaking reminder.
At five, they packed up. The drive home was silent, but it was a comfortable, charged silence. The truck felt like a bubble, separate from the world.
Emily was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. “How was it?” she asked, smiling.
“Good,” Dave said, dropping his keys on the counter. “Kid’s a natural. Sorted out the concrete fiasco before it even became a problem.”
“And you, Adam? Not too overwhelming?”
Adam was washing his hands at the sink, the water very hot. He met his mother’s gaze in the window’s reflection. “It was educational,” he said, his voice perfectly even. “I learned a lot about onsite dynamics.”
Later, after dinner, Dave went up to his new room to shower. Adam descended to the basement. His sanctuary felt different now. The memory of the office, the public risk, the smell of dust and sex, was layered over the usual citrus and order.
His phone buzzed. A text from Dave upstairs.
You left a stain on my blueprint.
Adam smiled. He took a picture of himself, clean and neat in his pyjamas, sitting at his pristine desk. He sent it.
The reply came instantly.
Doesn’t look right. Come upstairs. Bring your laptop. We’ve got logistics to plan for tomorrow.
Adam’s heart hammered against his ribs. He picked up his laptop, his fingers steady. He climbed the stairs, passed his mother’s closed door where the soft glow of her reading light spilled underneath, and stopped at the new guest room door. It was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open. Dave was sitting up in bed, the sheets around his waist, waiting. The look on his face was one of frank, hungry ownership.
“Close the door,” Dave said. “Let’s get to work.”