tagGay MaleNailed

Nailed

byCal Y. Pygia©

I've never been good with my hands.

I'd never make a mechanic, a carpenter, or an artist. I've known this since I made the mistake of taking shop in high school last year and received a "D" because none of my projects were executed well. For example, I made a birdhouse that even a wren would reject, and my lamp wouldn't light when the switch was depressed. Even the comedy and tragedy masks I made turned out lopsided. Knowing my ineptitude, I was reluctant to apply for a job as a construction crew laborer, but my friend Vinnie, who'd worked for the same crew the previous summer, assured me that I wouldn't need to be handy. As a laborer, I'd be the crew's gopher, more apt to make coffee-and-doughnut runs than to hammer a nail, saw a board, or plaster drywall.

The foreman, David, seemed to like me from the outset. He was a tall, muscular, well-tanned man in his thirties, with curly blond hair and sky-blue eyes. Like most of the other men on the crew, he often worked without a shirt, and the bronzed flesh upon his deep, chiseled chest and six-pack abs gleamed with sweat. He looked like a Greek god when he hammered nails, and I couldn't help but to admire the way his biceps swelled when he lifted his arm; I almost leaped at the sharp clang of the hammerhead as he drove each nail home with a single blow, making short work of even the most demanding carpentry tasks.

Vinnie's prediction proved to be true. I was never asked to do more than hold a board in place while someone on the crew sawed or hammered it, carry supplies from one place on the worksite to another, or fetch meals from the roach coach at lunchtime.

At first, I was self-conscious around the other guys. They were men; I was just a high school kid working a summer job. They were skilled with their hands. I was inept. They were muscular and tanned. I was pale and skinny. Their hands were rough and callused. Mine were, like the rest of me, soft and smooth as a girl. In fact, I felt more like a girl around them than I felt that I was one of the guys.

I guess a couple of them thought I was more girlish than manly, too, because Gus, a handsome young man with glossy black hair, sideburns, and a thin mustache, jabbed at my asshole through the seat of my jeans one day when he and I were working alone on one of the houses we were building. I turned, angry, and glared at him over my shoulder. "Quit it!" I ordered. "What are you, a faggot?" He just laughed at me.

The incident bothered me. It made me uncomfortable. I already felt self-conscious and uncertain around the macho men with whom I worked. I didn't need some asshole poking at me with a fucking screwdriver, as if I were some queer who enjoyed being fucked in the ass. I decided to talk to David about the incident. Maybe, I hoped, he'd fire Gus. Then, I wouldn't have to worry about the bastard.

I found the foreman by himself, hammering nails into the drywall that would form the skeleton of a living room wall in somebody's future home.

"He was just playing with you," David remarked after I'd reported the matter.

"Well, I don't like his sense of humor," I complained. "I don't see anything funny about one man poking another man in the ass." My reference to myself as a man surprised me, but David didn't seem to notice it.

"Gus is okay," David assured me. "Sometimes, he just likes to play around with the new crew members."

I frowned, uncertain as to how to respond. Maybe I was making too much of the incident. Besides, David had thrown me by referring to me, a mere gopher, as a "crew member." Was that how my boss thought of me, as one of the crew, as one of the guys, as a man among men? Vaguely, I wondered whether Gus had also prodded Vinnie in the ass when he'd worked as the crew's laborer last summer. If so, Vinnie hadn't mentioned the incident to me. Maybe I should forget about the matter.

"It's just a guy thing, Mike," David informed me, "like football players patting each other on the ass after a touchdown. I'll talk to him about it, though."

I shrugged. "Okay." As long as Gus didn't do it again, I guessed I could let the matter drop.

"Where are you going?" David asked as I turned to leave.

"Gus needs me to--"

"Stay," the foreman interrupted me. "I could use your help myself."

I repressed a smile. "Sure, boss."

We worked side by side the rest of the afternoon. I didn't do much. David did most of the actual work while, mostly, I watched. The hammer flew in his hand as he pounded nails, his fist tight around the handle of the hammer, his biceps swelling with every lift of the tool, and the deep bronze flesh of his naked torso gleaming with sweat. I thought about Gus' prodding hammer, blushing at the unbidden fantasy that it had been David, not Gus, who'd poked my asshole, and that it was his thick, hard cock, not a screwdriver, that he'd thrust between the cleavage of my ass, which hadn't been covered by denim jeans and cotton briefs but had been as bare as David's naked chest. I felt my cock stir inside my jeans, and I blushed again, more deeply, trying to concentrate on the work at hand--which, for me, was passing nails to David so that he could hammer without pause. Each time he'd snatch the offered nail from my fingers, an electric thrill flashed through me as the tips of his thick fingers touched mine.

Maybe I'd reacted so strongly to Gus' asinine behavior with the screwdriver because, secretly, deep down, I was attracted to other men, too--or, at least, to certain other men. Maybe I was a faggot and just hadn't realized that I thought of men--or men like David, anyway--the way that women thought of them.

As I continued to hand off nails to David, I found that my eyes had wandered to his crotch. His jeans were tight, and the outline of his cock and balls showed beneath the snug denim. Judging by the bulge there, he was long and thick, and he had big balls. I wondered if, beneath the jeans, he wore any underwear. The clear outline of his genitals suggested that he did not. Did Gus wear underwear? I had no idea. I'd never glanced at his crotch.

Another thought occurred to me. Vinnie didn't wear underwear, either, not since he'd worked for David as a laborer last summer. I know, because I'd had physical education class with him, and I'd seen him dress and undress before and after showering. I'd even asked him about it. "Vinnie, what's up with not wearing underwear?" I'd enquired, curious. He'd smiled. "I don't wear them anymore," he'd confided. "They're too restrictive."

Was Vinnie's decision to go without briefs after working for David a mere coincidence? I wondered.

The next day, I decided not to wear any underwear. At first, I was afraid that the other guys on the crew would notice. They might say something. Even worse, Gus might be inspired to try something stupid. Maybe, I thought, it hadn't been such a good idea, after all, to omit my briefs. On the other hand, not wearing underwear made me very much aware of my cock and balls. My dangling genitals swung and bobbed when I bent or crouched, and the glans of my penis rubbed against the denim that covered my otherwise bare crotch. I was also more conscious of my ass. When I sat, there was one less layer of material between my buttocks and the hard wood of the floor or the bed of the pickup truck that doubled as a lunchtime bench. I felt liberated.

During the day, I surreptitiously glanced at the other guys' crotches, even Gus', and saw that none of them seemed to wear boxers or briefs, either. The bulging outlines of their cocks and balls were plain, clearly indicating their respective dimensions. Gus' cock, I noticed, was relatively small. I smiled to myself, glad that the asshole had been cursed with a little prick. Maybe the size--or lack thereof--of his penis was the reason he felt the need to poke other guys in the ass; maybe he felt more like a man by symbolically feminizing other males.

Toward the end of the day, I had to take a leak, and I was approaching the porta-potty when I heard a low moan. Someone has been hurt, I thought. I rushed forward, toward the sound, which had come from behind the portable toilet. I stopped in my tracks, eyes wide and mouth agape, when I saw Gus and another crew member named Steve lying on the ground, naked, with the latter's cock up the former's ass, thrusting like mad. Steve grunted as he shoved his prick farther into Gus' asshole, and Gus moaned again, more deeply. They were both so intent upon themselves that neither had seen me. Thank God! I thought, as I hastened away from them, the need to urinate suddenly gone and forgotten.

What should I do? I asked myself as I returned to the job site. Report them to David? Let Gus and Steve know I'd seen them fornicating? Ignore the whole matter? The sight of the two men fucking had shaken me. I found a seat on the steps of a brick Colonial and sat, trying to collect myself.

"Mike!" It was David, calling to me from the second-story window of the adjacent house. "I could use a hand."

I rose and went to him, deciding not to mention the incident between Gus and Steve. After all, they were grown men. What they decided to do on their break was their business. I just wished I hadn't seen them doing it. I made another decision, too. From now on, I was going to wear underwear. I didn't want faggots like Gus and Steve eyeing my cock and balls through my jeans. The next time I was alone with Gus, he might want to use more than a screwdriver on my ass!

Inside the house, I found the stairs and climbed them to the second story. Oddly, I didn't hear David's hammer. Maybe he was waiting for the help he needed from me. I crossed the space that would become a bedroom and hurried down the unfinished hallway to what would become the master bedroom. This room was partly finished. Drywall had been hung on the four walls' framework of two-by-four timbers, closing off the view except through the window out of which David had looked when he'd called to me a few moments ago.

I reached the doorway--and stopped, my eyes widening at the sight of my foreman standing completely naked, his thick, hard cock in hand, masturbating. My lower jaw dropped, as I turned, muttering an apology, and started to leave.

"Stay, Mike," he said. "Please."

I paused outside the room, uncertain of what to do. I'm no faggot, I told myself, but, at the same time, I had to admit--to myself, at least--that I was attracted to David. He was handsome as hell, and he had a body such as sculptors carved to represent a god like Adonis or Apollo. My staring eyes swept down his deep, tanned chest, over his firm six-pack abs, to the erect penis closed in his pumping fist and the jiggling balls in the taut, risen bag of his scrotum, imagining his manhood inside my mouth or up my ass. Run! I told myself, but I also thought, Stay!

My hesitation told David all he needed to know. "Take off your clothes, Mike," he ordered.

A moment later, I was naked, like David. I knelt before him, to worship his cock. I kissed the purple glans, licked the swollen shaft, and nuzzled his balls with my lips. I took one of his testicles into my mouth, working my inner cheeks around the elliptical gonad. David moaned (sounding much as Gus had!) I spat out the testicle before taking the other into my mouth and administering the same treatment to it. Then, I lifted my head, leaving a strand of saliva glistening between my lower lip and my foreman's balls. The thin string broke as I pressed my open mouth down, over, and along David's magnificent prick, feeling my lips drag against the smooth, tight flesh of his rigid, swollen penis. He was too long for me to take the entire length of his manhood into my mouth, but I took as much of his erection between my rounded lips as possible, and he moaned again. The sound reminded me of what I'd seen behind the porta-john. I remembered Steve's prick sliding through the ring of Gus' anus as the former's balls slammed repeatedly into the latter's buttocks. My own cock was stiff and swollen now; it stood upright against my belly. I had to confess that I was every bit as much a faggot as Gus was; I wanted David's cock as devoutly as Gus had wanted Steve's cock--and my ass.

Ravenous to be fed, I sucked greedily at David's massive manhood, my head bobbing up and down as I pumped my lips back and forth upon his distended shaft, my fingers playing with the huge balls within his silken scrotum. I loved the feel of the rigid column of flesh between my pumping lips and the fullness of its girth inside the warm-soft-wetness of my mouth. I'd become a cocksucker--and I loved it!

After another few minutes, David placed a hand atop my head, stroking me as if I were a pet. "Stop."

My mouth full of his cock, I looked up at him, a quizzical expression on my face. I knew he was enjoying the blowjob. Why would he want me to stop before he'd reached orgasm?

Dutifully, I withdrew, letting his saliva-glistening cock slide free of my mouth and lips.

"Turn around," he told me.

I knew what was coming, and I did as I'd been told, facing away from him and positioning myself upon my elbows and knees, legs wide, to allow him access to my asshole.

He knelt behind me, and I felt his fist against my backside as he guided his erection into the deep cleavage of my bottom. His hard column of flesh parted the inward-curving slopes of my buttocks, and his rubbery glans pressed against the portal of my asshole. Not knowing whether to expect pleasure or pain, I gritted my teeth and waited. A moment later, his cock, pressing resolutely against my tiny, puckered anus, gained entrance, spreading my sphincter to the same girth as his prick, and he fed the thick, hard stalk of his manhood into my bowels, inch by slow inch, until he'd buried the entire length of his organ inside my rectum and his pubic hair rasped against the sleek flesh of my impaled buttocks. My anus fluttered frantically about his invading member, as if attempting, vainly, to dislodge the trespassing organ. His cock planted in my ass to the hilt, David waited for the spasms to subside; when they did, he began to fuck me.

Withdrawing his cock from my bottom until only the glans remained within my sphincter, he drove his prick down, fast and hard, and the massive organ slid through my asshole, into the depths of my bowels. Back and forth, with greater force and an ever-increasing tempo, his prick pumped inside my anus as he thrust home again and again, assaulting my ass. My buttocks flattened beneath his every advance, bouncing back as he withdrew to slam his cock deep into my backside again, wracking my frame, shaking my jutting cock, and jiggling my balls. Every time his penis shoved into my ass, I thought he'd split me in half, but I managed to accommodate his tick, rigid prick, and, after several minutes of his ravaging assault, moaning and groaning, he slid his cock free, and I felt his warm semen splatter against my naked backside.

We dressed, and I left, looking forward to another day of work. On the way to my car, I saw Gus. He smiled at me, and I smiled back at him, no longer thinking him a disgusting "faggot." In fact, he was kind of cute. Had he been with David, too? I wondered. Most likely, I decided. There was probably a good reason that no one on David's crew wore underwear. I knew that I never would again. As Vinnie had said, they were too restrictive.

Good ol' Vinnie! I thought. When I got home, I'd give him a call. When he answered the phone, I'd say, "I know why you don't wear underwear anymore, Vin; I don't either." After all, like David, Gus, Steve, and the other guys on the crew, Vinnie's kind of cute, too.

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