Razor

Author's Note: Hey guys, I had an interesting month in that two guys reached out with what specifically turns them on. One of 'em wanted smooth guys, the other wanted a transformation that had to do with hair. Now... I don't do commissions, but if you can get me turned on, there's a good chance I'll write it. Potentia is what I wrote with an emphasis on smoothness, this one goes for hairy. It's a little outside my normal – hope y'all enjoy!

-----

I knew my angles.

Tilt the phone, catch the pec line, flex the abs just enough.

My skin looked good. Better than good. Tanned. Smooth.

I love being smooth. All my buddies have to shave their chests or use all sorts of filters. Not me – run your hand against me, I’m shiny with that post-pump glow. I barely have to buzz my face with a razor.

I gave myself a little smirk—half-cocky, half-boyish—and snapped the shot.

“Gotta keep the fans happy," I grinned, throwing on a fire emoji and #chestday.

By the time I’d finished my shake, the likes were already rolling in. A couple hundred in ten minutes. Comments from the usuals. "Lickable." "Model vibes." One girl just dropped, "Hnnnng." 

I love it when they stroke my ego. I'm not like... a narcissist or anything. It’s just, if you’ve got it... why not? Let people look!

I flexed. Just once. No one else around. Just me and the mirror.

"Ten thousand and climbing," I chuckled, thinking about my follower count again. "Fuck yeah."

-----

My uncle told me it was grunt work. Easy money for the summer.

I stepped out of my car and scanned the lot. The guys were already unloading lumber — older, bigger, I doubt they even had Instagram. One scratched his belly through a neon safety vest and gave me a long, slow look.

By 8 AM the job site already felt like a furnace. Dust, diesel, and sweat hung in the air. My shirt — tight, clingy, carefully chosen — was already sticking to my back. I had brand-new work boots and a clean pair of gloves.

“Christ,” one of the guys muttered. “We hire an Abercrombie model?”

“Hope those boots came with a selfie stick,” another added, not bothering to lower his voice.

I didn't like the way they laughed. It wasn't fair – I made a point of growing out my facial hair before starting the job. Just a little beard, nothing crazy — but I figured it’d make me look rugged. Help me blend in.

Now that I was here, I could already tell it wasn’t working. There wasn't a single beard on the job site. 

These guys were built like trucks and looked like they rolled in the dirt. Skin like they’d been smoking since birth. Moisturize? These guys didn’t wear sunscreen.

I ignored the chatter. These guys looked like a bunch of apes. Grimy, sun-worn, unbothered. High school dropouts. the lot of 'em.

Imagine waking up every day to haul lumber until retirement. Not when I had options. Not when I had a following. These guys didn’t even look like they knew how to use a ring light.

“Hey, new guy,” snapped a voice behind me.

I turned around.

The dude was massive. Built like he lifted pallets for fun. Mud brown hair. Forearms like tree trunks, every inch of them covered in hair. Clipboard in one hand, thermos in the other. He saw through bullshit for a living.

“Yeah,” I said, flashing a grin. “I’m Brett.”

He didn’t flash one back. He looked at my face. Then frowned.

“You planning to keep that peach fuzz?”

My hand went to my chin defensively. The beard was barely more than scruff, but I’d been growing it out for weeks.

“Uh... yeah? I figured it made me look older.”

“Makes you look like you can’t grow a beard," he snorted. "I run a professional site. That means professional faces. You want to work here, you shave.”

I opened my mouth to say something — but then I saw his face. Like this wasn’t a debate.

“There's a razor in the trailer. Clean face, clean crew.”

“Uh, yeah," I swallowed. “Fine by me, I like being smooth.”

He clapped me on the shoulder and walked off.

----

The trailer smelled like old coffee and cheap cleaner. I was already sweating, the trailer sticky and hot enough to make my shirt cling.

I wanted to take it off and soak it in the sink, but... if one of the guys walked in and saw my abs, they’d never stop talking shit. They were already making fun of my looks – last thing I needed was these guys thinking I'm queer.

The mirror was cracked, the lighting was shit, but at least the razor was easy to find — balanced on the edge of the sink below the mirror. It looked like something from my grandpa’s generation.

It was heavy. Serious. Like something you’d take to the war.

I stared at myself. The beard – I thought it gave me a bit of edge... a little maturity to hide my babyface. But now, all I could see was how uneven it was. How thin. It looked desperate.

“This is stupid,” I muttered, twisting on the tap.

I lathered up fast, guessing how much to use. The cream felt cold. I hadn’t done this since middle school. I’d been using an electric trimmer since I was, like... thirteen?

This felt old-school. Messy. Kinda gross.

It was smooth. I another stroke. Then another. It was weirdly satisfying. Like reps at the gym.

By the time I finished, I looked... different.

My jaw was sharp. Like... photoshop-sharp. My electric left me with a barely-there shadow, but the blade left nothing behind. I ran my hand along my jaw.

Everything tingled. I fuckin’ loved it. I was totally smooth now.

I kept turning the razor slowly, watching how dim light hit the metal. It had this shine. It was weird, but holding it made me feel... solid. Like more of a guy.

I didn’t need to keep it. But I didn’t even think about leaving it behind. The boss said he wanted a clean crew.

It’s not like I’d find a better one at CVS. I smuggled it out to my backpack.

------

By the end of the day, I was wrecked. My shoulders ached, my lower back was screaming, and I felt like there was dirt between my buttcheeks. Every muscle in my body screamed.

The rest of the crew busted my balls. They called me "Abercrombie" when a girl flirted with me at lunch. One of them made me spend forty-five minutes looking for a "board stretcher" before admitting it wasn’t a real tool. After that, they told me it was tradition for the new guy to grease the ladder rungs — so I did it. Foreman nearly slipped and broke his neck.

They thought that shit was hilarious.

And the safety meeting? Jesus. The foreman practically used me as the example for what not to do. Whole crew watching while he fixed my hard hat and gave me a lecture about high-vis protocols like I was twelve.

By the time I got home, I barely had the energy to kick off my boots. I called my girlfriend while microwaving leftover chicken and whined the whole call — complained about my back, how much the guys were giving me a hard time, how the whole place smelled like old sweat and sawdust.

“Honestly?” she laughed. “It’s kinda hot. You in construction gear? That’s, like... peak masculinity.”

So at least that was  a perk. Just wish she hadn’t gone back to Montana for the summer.

After we hung up, I opened my socials, not expecting much — but my last post was blowing up. I’d made it that morning, just me in my new t-shirt and hardhat with the caption "new job!" Tons of likes. A bunch of comments from chicks.

"Construction? 😍"

"Love a man who works with his hands."

"DILF in training 💦"

I didn’t care I was sore. I scarfed down the rest of the chicken, marched to the bathroom, and pulled off my shirt. I looked damn good – my traps were popping, and that tight shave really helped my jawline.

Call me self-obsessed if you want. I flexed in the mirror, just for me.

That felt better.  Except... I scratched an itch right between my pecs and froze.

One hair. Just one. But it was thick. Dark. Not fuzz — this was man hair. Right in the middle of my smooth chest.

“Ugh—what the hell?” I moaned, trying to brush it away. It didn’t move. It had roots. I needed tweezers to get the fucker out.

For the first time in years, I didn’t take a selfie.

--------

The next morning, I rolled onto the site with a fresh shave. My face felt kinda raw.

And okay, yeah, the guys were still giving me shit. One of them walked by and went, "Damn, who polished the new guy’s chin?" Another muttered something about getting ready to do my headshot.

I was already sweating — vest clinging to my back, hard hat pressing divots into my forehead.

The foreman gave me this long-ass look as he walked by the tool bins. Not creepy or anything. Just... noticing.

“Looking good, kid,” he praised, whacking me on the shoulder. “That’s a professional look — clean and sharp. Just how I like my crew. Keep it up.”

I gave him a quick nod and a tight little grin. 

“Thanks,” I said, trying to play it cool. I massaged my shoulder after he left.

-----

.I’d always hoped maybe someday I’d wake up and look a little more rugged, a little less baby-faced. Like, still hot, but with some edge.

All I needed was a tighter shave. My jawline looked thicker. More squared off.

My towel hung low on my hips. I rubbed at my chest absently, then paused.

The hair was back. And it was spreading.

Not just a stray that I could pluck. This was a legit patch now. Dark, thick, and right across the shelf of my pecs. Impossible, right?

It made me sick... but it also made my dick twitch. That made me stop and think. It was kinda hot... maybe some of my followers would like it?  Worth checking, right?

I grabbed my phone, turned toward the mirror, and hit my angle.

Chest out. Good lighting. Sun-kissed skin. Snap. 

I tapped out a quick caption.  "Summer job’s rough but it's worth it! #nodaysoff"

By the time I’d found a clean pair of sweats, the notifications were rolling in.

"Shave that rug!" one girl wrote.

"What happened to my smooth prince?"

But the other comments — the gay guys who stalk my profile — they hit different.

"That fur’s lookin’ daddy as hell."

"Never stop posting, you hairy god.”

“That’s one for the spank bank!”

I read those over and over. I didn’t even try to hide the smile crawling across my face.

But I ignored the tent in my sweats.

“Gross babe,” my girlfriend texted. “Don’t post that shit!”

-----

It was after work on Friday and I needed a drink. Nothing fancy — just cold and cheap. I wandered into this dive bar near the job site. Real old-school.

My high-vis was unzipped, my tee was clinging to me, and I had a coat of dust on my jeans. Chest hair was peeking out from my collar — there was no hiding it anymore.

The bartender was tall, built, and scruffy. Late 30s maybe. Beard with a little salt in it. Forearms covered in fur. I’d started noticing those details, ever since my own forearms started to get hairy.

“Rough day?” he asked.

“Something like that,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “First week at the new job.”

“You can tell," he said, dropping his eyes to my chest. "That shirt’s barely hanging on.”

“Yeah," I laughed. "Site’s brutal. Heat’s worse. Can I grab a Bud?”

A few stools down, this woman gave me a once-over. Kinda flirty. Late twenties, glossy lipstick, drink in hand. She slid down the bar until she was closer than I’d like.

"Construction guy, huh?" she said, enunciating her words a little too carefully. "Hot."

I laughed and scratched under my shirt—one of those lazy, abs-showing moves I started doing when I got hot. The second I lifted the hem, it was obvious. Thick, dark hair had taken over the V of my stomach, climbing high up my abs.

Her face changed instantly.

"Oh. Wow," she said, backing off a little. "That’s... a lot. I like my boys smooth...”

And just like that, she slid back to her seat and pulled out her phone. I was furious. I didn’t even want her, but... come on, who turns down a guy like me? I hadn’t been rejected since... god, I don’t even remember.

I stared down into my beer and fumed. Then I heard a low voice in front of me.

"Don’t worry about her," the bartender said, sliding me a shot I didn’t order. "I think it looks fucking hot."

I looked up. He gave me that same smirk from earlier.

"Definitely my type," he added.

I didn’t say anything. Just blinked and took the shot. My hand brushed his. He wasn’t subtle.

Neither was my hard-on.

I stared at the beer like it had answers. When I glanced back up, he was halfway down the bar, talking to someone else. Like he didn’t just rewire my nervous system.

I took a long sip and adjusted my cock.

------

I didn’t sleep much that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, the bartender’s voice echoed. "Definitely my type." And the way my dick responded? Like I wanted to be his type.

That scared the hell out of me. I couldn’t keep looking like a damn grizzly bear. The ladies wanted me smooth, so... I needed to stop it. Erase it. Go back.

I found a waxing place online and called the second they opened. Told them I wanted the whole thing — from my neck on down.

“It’ll be expensive,” the woman on the phone warned.

“I just got paid,” I promised.  “And I want this shit gone!”

The place was bright and sterile. The table had that crinkly paper on it. It smelled like flowers mixed with disinfectant. I stripped off my clothes and got on the table. She didn’t say much. Just warmed the wax.

The first strip was straight down my chest. I almost bit through my tongue.

It was pain. Not cute pain — real pain. Sharp and deep and hot. My knuckles went white as I gripped the table.

She kept going. Methodical. Brutal. Wax, press, rip. Over and over. My girl waxes her own legs... how the fuck...?

My pecs. My abs. My obliques. She made me flip over so she could get my back. Every pull felt like it peeled away a layer of skin. And we’re never gonna talk about my ass, okay?

But when it was over?

I sat up and looked at myself in the wall mirror. Big sigh of relief.

I looked clean. I looked normal. Red and raw... but normal. The guy from the selfies. Problem solved.

But I woke up itchy.

-------

I couldn’t stop touching my chest all morning. The hair grew in thick over the weekend — dense, matted against my skin. Like a damn pelt. Every movement chafed against the fabric.

My cock wouldn't stop twitching. I couldn’t tell if I was turned on or losing my mind.

I needed a break, so I slipped behind the supply trailer. It was shady back there. Quiet. Cooler. That’s where I saw him — Tony.

He was one of the older guys. Didn’t talk much. Built like a fuckin’ tank. Hairy as hell.

Everything about him screamed power. Rough skin. Wide stance. He always smelled like smoke and dirt and honest sweat. I’d caught myself staring more than once—his forearms, his neck, the way his jeans stretched across his thighs when he bent over.

He just looked at me – that unreadable face, chewing on a toothpick like always.

I stopped. Fidgeted. My throat was dry. My hands wouldn’t stay still. I swear, I just went back there to get out of the sun for a minute, but...

He shifted his stance. Unzipped his fly.

Something in me broke.

I dropped to my knees. My brain was gone — just static and need.

My fingers were trembling as I unbuttoned his jeans. The second I got him out, the smell hit me like a brick to the face. Sweat. Musk. Work. It was filthy and pure and right.

His cock was thick. Heavy. Already swelling in my hand. I moaned just looking at it.

I took him in my mouth. Hard. Slow. Deep. Like I’d done it a hundred times, like my mouth knew what it was for.

Tony didn’t say a word. Just grunted low and dropped his hand on the back of my head. Big rough fingers. My heart was in overdrive.

He let me work. He let me worship.

I moaned around his shaft. I could’ve blown my load just from the weight of his cock on my tongue.

He groaned. Deep. Animal. His thighs tensed.

And then he finished. It slid down my throat, filling me up, salty and warm. My eyes watered, nose pressed to his skin, but I didn’t pull back. Didn’t flinch. I just swallowed. Again. And again. Until there was nothing left.

He zipped up and walked off without a word, like nothing had happened. Like this was just what I did.

I stayed there, knees in the dirt, chest heaving, chin slick with spit.

“Oh fuck,” I whispered. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

--------

After work, I hit the gym. It was my happy place — my zone. I thought maybe if I got a good pump in, I could shake some of the weird shit from my head.

I slipped on my Beats, cranked up my playlist, and hit the weights hard. And holy shit — my lifts were epic! Stuff that used to push me to failure? It felt like a warm-up.

I guess hauling lumber and rebar all day had its perks. Despite all the weird shit going on... the strength part? I was into it.

It wasn’t all good. My shirt stuck to me in new ways, dragging across the hair on my chest and back. Every rep tugged at it, every movement made me aware of just how thick it had gotten. Normally I’d just whip off my shirt, but... normally I was smooth.

Still, it felt good—like coming home. I powered through a full routine, muscles swelling, sweat dripping between my pecs. I caught myself grinning mid-rep. For a second, I almost felt normal.

Until I headed to the locker room.

There was a group of guys in there — late twenties, maybe early thirties. Loud. Slapping towels, laughing too hard at dumb jokes. Classic gym bro shit. Normally I’d ignore them, but they were being extra.

I rolled my eyes. The gym was sacred to me. A place to train, focus, zone out—not a frat house.

I stripped down, hit the showers, and let the hot water pound wash me clean. By the time I stepped out, the gym douches were stampeding out the door.

There was only one other guy in the locker room — older, maybe mid-forties. He was towelling off, gave me this once-over and chuckled like we were old pals.

"Man," he said, shaking his head. "Don’tcha miss being young?"

"Uh..." I blinked. "I'm not... exactly old."

"Sorry," he laughed. "Not trying to say you're my age or anything, but... once you hit thirty, you’re not a kid, y’know? Shit gets real."

He shut his locker and left, still chuckling. I stood there for a second and worried.

Then I rushed over to the mirror.

And froze.

My face —

It wasn’t just stubble or tired eyes. I looked older. Way older. Like mid-thirties minimum. There were lines now — real ones. Crow’s feet. Rougher skin. Like I’d spent years in the sun. My jaw was still sharp, but my cheeks were fuller, my brow heavier. More masculine, yeah. 

But not twenty-one. Not anymore.

--------

I called in sick the next day. Told the boss I had food poisoning.

I booked a last-minute appointment at my doctor and sat in the waiting room, sweating through my t-shirt, feeling like I was about to admit to a crime.

When they called me in, I didn’t know where to start. I sat on the exam table, picking at the edge of the paper sheet while the doc looked at her clipboard.

"So, what's the purpose of your visit today?" she asked.

"Something’s... wrong," I said. "I think. With my body."

She looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"Like, since I started this construction job, I’ve been changing. My body’s been changing. I’m growing hair in places I’ve never had it before. Not just a little. It’s thick. Fast."

She nodded slowly, waiting for me to go on.

"And it’s not just that. I feel... off. Like I’m not thinking the same. I’m acting different. I did something the other day. With one of the guys on site. I don’t even know why I wanted to. I just... did."

She tilted her head. "What do you mean, you ‘did something’?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Just—something I wouldn’t normally do. With a guy. It’s not important. I’m not...”

There was a long pause. She flipped a few pages on her clipboard, then glanced up at me again.

"I’m going to ask you something that might feel a little personal," she said. "Have you ever had sexual contact with men?"

“No. I mean—“ My throat tightened. I shook my head. "No. Never wanted to. Not until..."

"Sometimes intense changes in hormones, stress, even environmental exposure can affect libido or attractions,” she nodded, back on script. “I just want to make sure we’re looking at the full picture.”

“Right,” I muttered, staring down at my hands. "It’s just... new. All of it."

"Okay," she said, voice even. "We’ll run some tests. Have you been exposed to any chemicals at the site? Breathing in anything unusual?"

"That’s what I’m asking you," I said. "Is that something that could cause this? Hair growth, personality changes, libido stuff?"

She made a few notes. "We’ll run some tests. Hormones, bloodwork. See if anything stands out."

I nodded, but I could already tell from her voice—she thought it was all in my head. She thought I was queer and looking for an excuse.

She drew some blood and told me they’d call. I didn’t feel closer to an answer.

-----

I went to the foreman that morning. Pulled him aside near the trailer, where no one could hear us over the hum of the generator.

"Hey," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Can I ask something... weird?"

He just raised an eyebrow.

"It’s probably nothing," I said, scratching at my chest through my shirt. "But ever since I started here... I’ve been growing hair in places I’ve never had it before. And I looked in the mirror yesterday, and — boss, I don’t know. I look older. Mid-thirties at least."

He nodded and waited. I couldn’t help but keep talking.

"And, uh... I did something the other day. With a guy. On the crew. I didn’t mean to. It just... happened. And I don’t even know why."

I wished he’d hurry up and call me a slur. Anything to break the silence.

“So I’m just wondering. Is there, like... something here? In the air? In the water? Some kind of chemical or something? I’m not trying to be a pain, but I feel like... shit, I dunno.”

The foreman took a slow sip from his coffee. Smirked like he’d heard it all before.

“Sounds like you’re fitting in.”

-------

Weeks passed. You get used to things, turns out—even the crow’s feet and the permanent sweater on your chest. After a while, I stopped double-taking when I saw my reflection. I got used to my face.

The work got easier. I felt like I knew what I was doing. The guys didn’t make fun of my pretty-boy looks anymore. I was one of the guys.

I went out for beers with the crew, got invited to the group chat, got roasted like everybody else. At some point, I stopped noticing how hairy my chest got. It was the new normal.

The sun was brutal in August, but I didn’t mind the sweat anymore. Kinda liked it, actually. The way it softened the fur on my chest, soaked through my tee, showed off how big and bulky I got. I was buying bigger shirts now, and biceps still stretched the fabric every time I moved.

I moved different, too. Slower. Heavier. Like I took up more space—and yeah, I wanted people to notice. When I laughed, it was this low, rough rumble that made a few of the younger guys look over in awe. My face had changed. Older. Harder. There were lines now at the corners of my eyes, and my jaw looked like it’d been carved out of stone.

At lunch, I sat legs spread, arm draped over the back of a bench. One hand under my shirt, absentmindedly scratching at the thick hair on my chest. I didn’t talk much. You gotta rest when you can.

I hadn’t spoken to my girlfriend in weeks. I never blocked her or anything, I just... stopped responding. Last thing she sent was a selfie. I looked at it and didn’t even twitch.

I smelled like sweat. Hair. Cheap cologne. I’d open up my locker and just breathe it in, my cock stirring with every breath. I liked what I saw in the mirror. None of that pretty-boy bullshit anymore, 

I was fitting in for sure.

-------

The foreman called me into the trailer. I figured it was about overtime or some bullshit.

He gave me that look. The slow once-over. Like he was sizing up a piece of work and finally happy with the quality.

Then he pulled out his phone, thumbed through something, and held the screen where I could see it. It was an old reel—one of mine. Back when I was a self-obsessed kid, flexing in gym lighting, lips parted just right.

"Jesus," I laughed. "I looked like some kinda cocksucker."

He didn’t smile. Just narrowed his eyes.

"Get your head on right, son. Ain’t about calling names."

I blinked, straightened a little. 

"Sorry. Just—crazy how different I was. I mean... I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, 

I shrugged, rubbing the back of my neck and trying hard to think.

"This. I mean... this is better. Stronger. Real."

"Damn right it is," he said. "Hair. Bulk. That voice. You're not some boy anymore."

He stepped a little closer. Voice low. Steady.

"And I know what you’re into now. Men. Real men. Like me and my crew. So don’t you ever say cocksucker like it’s a slur, you hear me?”

“Yessir,” I nodded. He was right. I’d sucked off Tony more than a few times, but lately I’d been switching it up, getting some cock from Chris too.

The boss leaned back against the desk, crossed his arms, and sighed like he was letting something go.

"Truth is," he said, "I used to hire guys like you every summer. College kids. Young faces. They’d show up, mess around, quit before the season ended. Always had to retrain the next crop. Place was full of boys who didn’t know shit."

He picked up a razor from the desk and gave it a little spin between his fingers. It looked just the one I had at home, except that one was going dull.

"Then I figured this out," he said, holding it up like a holy relic. "And wouldn’t you know it — suddenly we’ve got experience in the room. Guys with grit. Staying power."

He looked back at me, calm and certain.

"What do you say, boy? You done playin’ dress-up? How about you stick around. Full time."

My heart pounded. I didn’t argue. I was staring at the razor.

He held it out to me.

"You want it? All the way? Go shave."

I looked at the razor, then at the mirror. My jaw had it’s eleven o’clock shadow already. Two days without a shave and I’ve got a full beard.

“Yeah,” I said, running my hand along my jaw. “I think I will.”

I took the razor. My razor.

I lathered up my cheeks and neck. The first stroke of the blade sent a jolt down my spine. Cold steel against hot skin. And then it started.

Hair erupted across my body like something primal. My traps swelled. My pecs got meatier. My thighs stretched the seams of my jeans. I could feel the denim getting tight around my ass.

Salt-and-pepper streaks ran through my hair. My sideburns thickened. There were lines now at the corners of my eyes. My face... it just shifted.

I peeled off my shirt. My chest hair was thick, wet, curling across my skin in dark swirls. My reflection in the mirror looked older. Harder. Bigger.

The kid was gone. I looked like a man.

A fuckin’ man.

I grunted, flexed in the mirror, chest heaving. My cock throbbed in my jeans. My hand ran down through the hair on my chest, thick and soaked with sweat.

“Fuck yeah,” I growled. “Look at me.”

I rubbed my chest slow, dragging my nails through it. Smirked.

“Real man. A real fuckin’ man.”

------

The bar smelled like beer and the floor stuck just to your boots. Neon signs buzzed overhead, most of 'em half-lit. Darts in the corner, pool table with a lopsided leg, a jukebox that only played shit from the 80’s.

I loved it.

This was where the crew went after a shift. Our spot. Tony and a few of the other guys were already there, nursing Buds and razzing each other over some bullshit. I pulled up a chair, popped the cap off my bottle, and leaned back.

Chris were deep in some story about a busted concrete mixer when Tony jabbed me with his elbow.

"That kid’s been starin’ at you for five minutes," he hinted.

There was a kid at the end of the bar. Barely old enough to drink. Clean-cut, gym-fit, a little tighter through the arms than my old look. The same smooth skin, same bright eyes. Look like he hadn’t worked a day in his life.

"Yeah?" I smirked.

"You're the stud," Tony pushed me. "Go say hi."

Twist my rubber arm. I walked over slow and deliberate. The kid’s eyes widened a little.

“Uh... come here often?” he asked nervously.

“Yeah,” I laughed, deep and low. “You suck a lotta dick?”

His mouth dropped open just enough. I grabbed his belt, tugged him off the stool, and led him to the john.

Lucky me – it was empty. I shoved him against the wall of the stall. He kissed me first, sloppy and hungry. I grabbed his hair, yanked his head back.

"On your knees, boy," I growled. "Daddy’s got needs."

He dropped without hesitation.

I leaned back, my weight against the door as he swallowed my cock.

His lips stretched around the head of my dick, slick and tight, tongue already working like he’d dreamed about this. I grinned, watching the way his cheeks hollowed out, the way his throat flexed as he took me deeper.

He gagged once, then again, and I growled, gripping his hair in my fist — not too rough, but enough so he knew I was in charge. My cock throbbed on his tongue, thick and hot, sliding in and out of that wet, eager mouth.

The whole room smelled like sex and sweat and cheap cologne. My balls slapped his chin as I jammed my cock deeper. He glanced up at me, eyes glassy, and I nearly lost it. My thighs tensed. I groaned low in my chest.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” I praised him.

He moaned around my length, hands gripping my thighs, pulling himself deeper.

I couldn't stop him if I tried.

I didn’t try.

--------

My phone buzzed again on the kitchen counter. Truth is, I hadn’t checked my socials in weeks — not since the job turned into a life. Whatever was blowing up my inbox could stay there.

I was standing in the kitchen, shirtless, yesterday’s jeans, chest hair still damp from my shower. It was early — sun was barely up — but I had a shift. The coffee was hot in my hand. I splashed a little whisky in — just enough to ease my aching muscles.

I could hear soft breathing. My hookup from last night was still out cold. He was sprawled across my sheets, face mashed against the pillow. Smooth. Soft. He wasn’t built for work.

Sure, I was late, but something about this guy... it was stirring up memories. I scratched absently at my gut and walked over to the hall closet. Pulled out my old ring light from the bottom and snapped the fucker in half. I didn’t need it.

Then I picked up my phone, thumb hovering over the Instagram icon. The notifications were endless — likes, comments, thirsty DMs from strangers. I didn’t care.

I opened it all up one last time. Looked at the grid. All those staged gym pics, brand collabs, lighting tricks. Flexing for people I didn’t even know.

I scrolled through the comments. Read a few. Smirked at the thirsty dudes.

Maybe one more pic? The new me, just to confuse all the ladies who want Ken for their Barbie? Nah... it wasn’t worth the trouble.

Delete account.

Are you sure?

Yeah.

Then TikTok. SnapChat. All of them – gone.  And my girlfriend’s number...

I had my crew. My boots. My cock.

“Only thing I need’s a cold drink and a warm hole,” I muttered to myself.  I swiped to delete my girlfriends number too. Ex-girlfriend, I guess.

I kissed the slut on his forehead and headed out the door.

----

I hadn’t woken up soft in weeks. My dick was already stuck against my thigh, thick and ready like it never powered down.

My man was still out cold beside me — naked, smooth, gym-built. Looked like a magazine ad when he wasn’t moving. He just kept coming back or more.

He'd have to get up soon enough. He worked early shifts at that café downtown. Kept saying it was temporary. He should trade the apron for a hard hat. Get a little grit on him. Let the sun rough him up a bit. I always say construction pays better.

He just laughed and called me a beast. I shot back, called him soft.

Still, he looked good laid out like that.

He groaned a little when I rolled over. I pulled the sheet off him slow, just to watch him stretch in the morning light. Tight chest. Smooth skin. No shame in staring when he’s yours.

I grabbed his thigh, pulled his leg up over mine, and dragged my cock along his crack—slow, teasing. He stirred, murmured something, still mostly asleep.

"C'mon," I whispered, biting at his neck. "You know how Daddy wakes up."

That got a smile out of him. Eyes half-lidded. Ass already pressing back against me.

I spit in my hand, stroked myself once, twice, then lined up. Pushed in slow, just enough to make him gasp. He gripped the sheets, arching cause he wanted more. I gave it to him.

Fucked him deep, rough, slow at first just to feel every inch. His body opened for me like he’d been waiting all night.

"You like wakin’ up like this, don’tcha?" I growled into his ear.

He nodded, moaning something I couldn’t understand. We didn’t need words. I could feel it in the way he clenched, the way his hips moved, begging for every thrust.

I pinned his neck with one hand, used the other to slap his ass — light, playful, just enough to make him whimper. He was loud this morning. Slick and tight and squirming under me. Loving every second.

I pumped harder, panting, growling, the bed creaking under my weight. His cock was leaking against the sheets.

When I came, I didn’t slow down. Just grunted into his shoulder and held him still, emptying every drop inside him. I owned that hole.

He was a mess when I pulled out—gasping, dazed, stretched and glowing.

I kissed his cheek, smacked his ass, and got up.

“Better than coffee,” I scratched my chest and yawned like a bear.

The kitchen was cold, but I didn’t care – I’ve got more than enough hair to keep me warm – and I started frying everything in sight. Eggs. Bacon. Sausage. I didn’t even sit down. Just shoveled it in, leaning on the counter with my forearm while the next round sizzled.

Three breakfasts. Normal shit.

Brushed my teeth. Threw on my jeans and grabbed my cooler. Time to go make money.

On-site, I whistled at the twinks hauling plywood off a flatbed. One blushed. The other wouldn’t look me in the eye. I grinned and flexed my chest just enough to make my tanktop jump.

At lunch, we sat out on the tailgate, chewing through sandwiches and talking shit like always. The sun was blazing, and the jobsite was busy—new crew across the lot, young guys unloading steel like they had something to prove.

Tony elbowed me and nodded toward one of them. Tight shirt, big arms, dumb haircut.

"You see that one?" he said.

I let out a low whistle.

“Hydrate, dominate, then hibernate,” I said, taking a swig from my water jug. “And if he’s still walkin’? Round two.”

The guys lost it. Laughed so loud a few of the new hires looked over.

I bit into my sandwich, grease on my fingers, my cock already giving me a lazy throb in my jeans.

I was thick everywhere, loud as hell, eating like a machine and fucking like one too. I didn’t think too hard about stuff anymore. Didn’t need to. Life felt simple. Solid. 

Wake up, lift heavy, eat big, bust hard. Be a man.

That’s the fuckin’ job.