Sean and Luther Pt. 01: Plumber

I was cooling off in the pool one afternoon, enjoying one of the last, long days of Summer between my Freshman and Sophomore year at UCLA. I could still taste the rich chocolate of one of my friend Sara's "special" brownies, and was floating on my back, staring up at the cloudless sky, feeling loose and relaxed. I stirred my hands in the water, my skin tingly. The water slipped between my fingers. I felt like I was lifting up from the pool, flying above the cool water, our manicured lawn, our house, our neighborhood. Up and out and away.

Nothing could ruin this day.

"Sean! The plumber is on his way, but I have to leave. Emergency at work. Will you let him in when he gets here?"

Wrong. I sighed. Rolled my eyes. Blinked hard, brought back down to Earth by the sound of my mother's voice, thick with impatience. Maybe she'd just go, and leave me--

"Sean!"

"Yes! Okay! I got it!" I called back. I hadn't really heard what she'd said, but just wanted her to stop yelling. Geeze.

I heard her shout out something about picking up my room, or putting my laundry away, or something equally nag-tastic. She was always on my case it seemed. She resented my presence in her home. I was an adult now. I should be out on my own. She basically said as much with her eyes every time she looked at me. We were close when I was a kid, but after I came out as bi at 13, following her discovery of a ratty Playgirl I'd found in a dumpster and hidden under my mattress, she had distanced herself in subtle ways. She stopped going to my football games, didn't show up for any shows when I was in my high school's production of Grease, among other things. At first I was hurt. Disappointed. Whatever. I made friends easily, and they were all supportive and amazing. I didn't need my mom to be my best friend, but I did need a place to live. Thankfully she came through in that regard. She hadn't kicked me out to fend for myself, or tried to convince me to "pray the gay away" or "fix" me. There was nothing wrong with me, I just wasn't her little boy any more. When I told her I wasn't going away for college after graduating, she let me stay, but not rent free.

I have a part-time job at a local hardware store owned by my friend Ben's family. Minimum wage. Not enough to afford an apartment close to campus, but it is enough to afford my room in my mom's house. Plus Ben's dad, the owner of the store, is a hot older DILF I wouldn't kick out of bed.

I could feel my lids drooping. Time to get out of the pool. That brownie was strong! Shit. I would have to thank Sara.

I floated slowly to the edge of the pool, flipped over and climbed out, feeling the water slide down my body. The tingle had intensified. It was ... strange. The skin on my arms and legs were covered in goosebumps, and my nipples were hard. I ran my hands through my wet hair, something I did every morning stepping out of the shower, but the feeling was altogether new, exciting.

I had eaten a number of Sara's special brownies in the past, we'd been friends since Freshman year of high school, bonding under the bleachers while hiding out from a pep rally. I was no stranger to the kick of her treats, but had never felt anything quite like this before. Standing at the edge of the pool, a light breeze playing over my shoulders, I put a finger to my lips. Chlorine. Salt. I licked my finger, curiously. The sensation was magnified. The texture of my tongue against my fingertip was overwhelming; a shudder ran through me, and I became suddenly very aware of my clingy wet shorts as I grew hard. My 7-incher throbbed against my thigh, matching the pace of my racing heart.

Fuckin' hell, Sara. What did you do to me?

I made my way very deliberately to the house, feeling light-headed, and extremely horny. I knew what I needed: to jerk off and take a long nap. I barely remember making my way through the house and upstairs to my bedroom. My mother had recently redecorated the entire place so it practically felt like a stranger's house, which wasn't helping. After my most recent stepfather took off a year earlier, she had gone a tad overboard in the redecorating department. Everything reminded her of him, and she couldn't handle that. She had, however, left my room alone. It hadn't changed much since grade school. Same bed, different sheets. Same desk, different computer.

I shucked off my floral swim trunks, tossing them into (well, near) the hamper, and flopped onto my desk chair, navigating quickly to my favorite Pornhub video, and started beating off. No lube. Fuck lube. I like friction, resistance. I was home alone so I didn't have to be quiet, and moaned as I pounded my dick. Firm grip, long full strokes, teasing my winking piss slit. What I was in the mood for changed on a daily basis, but this particular afternoon it was guy on guy. Hardcore. Something that would make me cum fast. In the video, a tall, hyper-muscular dude was giving it hard to a pale, well-built ginger. The bottom dude's ass was perfect, round and firm, it bounced with every thrust of the powerful top. I was envious. I'd been fucked before, a few times, actually, but never that hard. The biggest dick I'd ever taken was probably 8 inches, so not much bigger than my own. It felt great, of course. I love getting fucked, but I wanted to get FUCKED.

I matched the pace of my strokes to the thrusts of the porn star. My dick was leaking from the pulsing head, and I used my free hand to tease out a long thread of pre-cum, bringing it to my lips. I moaned at the taste. Salty and sharp. I drove my entire index finger into my mouth, imagining it was a cock. Normally I would drag out a big toy from my toy box, use that to pound my throat while I jerked, but I was so close already my finger would do. So fucking close. I worked my finger in and out, added a second, then a third. Jerking with my left hand, using my right hand to finger bang my own throat,

I was moments away from blowing my load when the doorbell rang.

I decided to ignore it, and continued jerking. So fucking close. The guys in the video were blowing their loads, the white dude getting absolutely drenched in cum from the much larger black guy. It dropped down his forehead, his cheeks. The top reached down and, grinning, scraped a large quantity of it from the smaller man's face, and fed it to him. The white boy dutifully cleaned the black top's thick fingers, one after another, moaning as he did. That was the part that always made me blow, and this afternoon was no exception. My first jet of cum hit me in the chin, and I gasped. I'd never shot that far before in my life. I blinked as a second, and third shots hit my chest and stomach, pooling.

"Holy fucking shit," I exclaimed loudly. "Fuck that was good." I collapsed back in the chair, catching my breath. Whoever was at the door was growing impatient. The bell rang a second time, and then a third, with barely a moment between them.

"I'll be right down! Just a minute!" I called.

I scraped the cum off my torso, and brought it to my face. I had never had the courage to taste my own cum. Something about doing that was just ... too far for me. Someday, I thought, staring down at the pearly pool of my load as I made my way to the bathroom to clean off, quickly. The afternoon sun was coming in through the skylight, and I caught sight of myself in the medicine cabinet mirror as I toweled off with a warm damp cloth. The summer sun had been good to me, and my normally pale pink skin was a warm toasty brown. My red hair had lightened to a strawberry blonde, while my freckles, which covered the bridge of my nose had grown darker. I had always been mostly smooth, but in this light I could see the fine downy hairs that covered my torso, and forearms. I'm not muscular, by any means, but I'm fairly fit. I hadn't yet lost my high school swimmer's build to the "Freshman 15". I stand about 5'9", weigh about 160, so I'm not the biggest dude on campus, not by a long shot, but I'm not scrawny. High school sports kept me fit, and regular swimming in the backyard pool maintained it. I've got a big appetite, but I'm not a beer chugger like most of my jock friends.

I threw on some board shorts and tied them loosely before making my way to the first floor to open the door. As I neared the bottom of the steps I slowed. I could make out the frame of the person on the other side of the privacy window in the door, and I was shocked. There was very little light coming through, which was odd. The last time I recalled seeing that was when my mother's home gym had been delivered, and the box had been too big to fit through the door, so we'd had to bring it in, piece by piece. Maybe it wasn't the plumber, I thought, but another piece of exercise equipment doomed to grow dusty with disuse in the garage after my mom's fitness phase faded.

I opened the door slowly.

Standing on our front porch was, quite literally, the biggest man I'd ever seen in my entire life. I was eye-level with his stomach, which was round, testing the limits of the white T-shirt stretched taut over it. It didn't quite meet the top of his grey sweatpants, and the few inches of skin between the two pieces of overtaxed fabric was dark and hairy. My gaze traveled upward, past the shelf of his impressive pecs, which were clearly visible beneath the thin, well-worn material. Black curly hair bushed out at the collar of the T-shirt, and a heavy silver chain hung nestled there, in the crevasse between his enormous pecs. The man's neck was thick, veiny, at least what I could see of it beneath his overgrown beard, and his bald head glistened with sweat. He had hard, dark eyes, and was looking down at me impatiently. He cleared his throat. He was a lot of man to take in in one glance, and I thought maybe Sara's brownie was working overtime, making him seem bigger than he really was. He was just too unbelievably huge to be real.

"Plumber," was all he said. I stared dumbly for another beat before stepping aside to let him into our house. He had to duck, I kid you not. Our door is high and wide. I've never measured it, of course, but I would guess it's somewhere around 8 feet high. Which meant he was ... fuck. Fucking tall, is what.

"Whoa!" I gasped, unable to contain my shock. The giant man gave me an amused smirk, clearly used to this response. I stepped back onto the stairs to make room for him in the foyer. It was easier to look him in the face now, without straining my neck. He held out a massive hand and I stared at it at moment before slowly reaching out my own hand which looked puny by comparison. Punier then usual, I mean. I had inherited my mom's fine features, not my dad's, and never was this more evident than when I shook this man's hand, which can only be described as a hairy, callused catcher's mitt. His hand practically swallowed mine, engulfed it, and he gave a couple quick arm-rattling pumps before letting me go. The tingle I'd felt earlier was coursing up and down my entire body now, and I was suddenly very aware I was wearing only board shorts. I clasped my hands over my crotch and blushed, feeling very small in front of this behemoth. He smelled intoxicating to me. Like fresh laundry from the dryer and a McDonald's happy meal. Warm. Comforting. It filled up our average foyer the way an oven fills a small kitchen. The heat from his enormous body was palpable. He must have raised the temperature in the room just by entering it.

"Luther," he said.

"Luther," I repeated, dreamily. "No. Sean. Sorry. Fuck. Sorry."

He looked me up and down, cocking an eye brow, sizing me up. Could he tell I was high? Fuck. I hope he doesn't tell my mom. I do NOT want to have that conversation with her again.

"Where's your shirt, kid?"

"Nothing. I mean um. Hot. Swimming." I blushed harder. Fuck. Real smooth, Sean. What the fuck was wrong with me? He stepped into the foyer and my brain stepped out of my head? Normally I can hold my own with other people, but face to face with this overwhelmingly large man I suddenly felt completely worthless, powerless. My confidence had faced the moment I'd opened the door. This was primal, a lizard-brain response to a clearly dominant male.

"Hot is right." He said, his eyes lingering a little longer than they ought. Or did they? I scratched my shoulder nervously. "Real hot." He reached up a hand and scratched his thick, bushy beard for a moment, looking around. "Nice place. Care to show me the pipe?"

As he scratched his beard, I glanced down. There beneath his hard round gut was another bulge straining his grey sweatpants. Like two grapefruits in a grocery sack. My knees felt weak. What was wrong with me?

"Oh. Duh. The -- I think it's my mom's bathroom. She didn't tell me, but -- just, here. Follow me." I was stammering. Nervous. My palms were sweaty, my hands were shaking. I could chalk it up to the brownie, but honestly it was the effect of standing face-to-neck with a man who could probably snap me in half like a dry branch. I was, if I'm perfectly honest, a little scared of him. I realized I was staring again when he gave me a poke in the chest with a finger thicker than my dick. I winced.

"Ain't got all day, kid," he boomed, picking up his tool bag again.

I led him through our living room, past the kitchen, down the hall to the other side of the house where my mom's bedroom. It was immaculate as always, not a thing out of place. He whistled appreciatively.

"Real nice," he commented. His deep bass voice sent a warm shiver down my back. I was still rock hard in my board shorts, and thankful I had my back to him.

"Um. Thanks, bro," I said over my shoulder. "Here's her bathroom. I'm not sure what the problem is, but she's always complaining about the plumbing in here."

"I'll figure it out, kid," he said, placing a huge heavy hand on my bare shoulder, shoved me gently out of the way. I bit my lip. "I'll take it from here." Please do, I thought. Take it all. It's yours for -- wait. Kid? He called me Kid. I'm 19. I'm a man, but when a man as big as a house calls you kid you don't argue, know what I mean?

"Sure. You're the pro. If you need anything, I'll be downstairs making some lunch." I offered. He hesitated a moment before shaking his head.

"Nah. I'm good, kid."

My face felt hot, and I cleared my throat, nodded, excusing myself quickly, before he had a chance to spot my erection throbbing in my shorts. Just minutes ago I had been proud of my decent endowment, now, having seen what a REAL man looked like, I felt smaller. Smaller than I'd ever felt in my life. I was so hard it hurt, and I was suddenly famished. My stomach felt empty, hollow. It grumbled loudly, eliciting a chuckle from Luther.

Luther stepped into my mother's oversized bathroom, which always seemed too big to me, but this man seemed to fill it. The ceilings in her bedroom and bathroom are 10 feet, so Luther, big and broad as he was, was able to walk comfortably; he didn't even have to stoop under the arch between the rooms. He placed his tool bag on the floor with a dulled clank of metal on tile and knelt down to inspect the toilet, then the sink. I was transfixed. Unable to move. Kneeling as he was under the vanity, his sweatpants had slipped down a bit, revealing the wide dark expanse of his lower back and the crack of his ass, and a ... tattoo? I almost laughed. Was that a tramp stamp?

"Ain't you got a sandwich needs makin'?" He asked, head still under the vanity.

"I um. Yeah. Just curious about how this all works is all ... I mean. I guess." I gestured vaguely. I really just wanted to continue staring at him. He was just so overwhelming and intoxicating.

"Fine with me, kid. Hand me that wrench from my bag."

I stepped into the bathroom, the cool tile a shock to my feet, and reached into the tool bag. I'm no mechanic, but I can recognize a wrench. Like everything else about Luther, his tools were outsized. I lifted it from the tool bag with both hands and held it out proudly.

"Here you go, sir."

"Ain't gotta 'sir' me, kid. Luther's fine," he said, taking the wrench.

He sure is, I thought. Fine as Hell.

My mind was a jumble of thoughts, most of them involving Luther using me like a fuck toy. I had already jerked off, and normally I was one-and-done, but as soon as I laid eyes on him, shook his callused hand, smelled him, I was ready to go again. I was ready to do whatever he wanted. I had never felt this way about anyone, if I'm perfectly honest. Usually people feel this way about me. I know that sounds cocky, but every girl I've ever fucked, every guy I've ever fucked or been fucked by, has told me I drive them "wild". That was how I was feeling in this moment: Wild. Until now I hadn't known what they had meant when they used that word. It was like I was actively having to resist some primal urge to rip this man's clothes off, and give myself to him, completely, like an animal.

How would it even work, I puzzled, staring at his enormous back, thick, clearly muscular thighs and calves bulging beneath his jeans. The bottoms of his work boots were surprisingly clean. They looked brand new, the black rubber barely worn down. It suddenly struck me that part of what I was smelling was his work boots. That new-shoe smell. So good.

Where does a guy that big even get clothes? I pondered. More importantly, why does he even wear them? With a body like that, dude should be stomping naked through the streets, commanding people to worship him. He's so much larger than me, than almost anyone I've ever met. Just all-around enormous. He probably wouldn't even feel me if I tried to fuck him, and if he tried to fuck me, I doubt whatever he was packing would fit in my mouth or my ass. My mouth was suddenly watering at the thought. I'd look like that hamster eating a banana meme. He would definitely break me. But what a fucking way to go.

Who does a guy this big even fuck? Anyone he wants to, probably.

Luther moved from the vanity, satisfied that the issue didn't lay with the sink. The toilet was across the room, and as he stood his jeans slipped a little further down, revealing more of his ass crack. I wanted to bury my face in it and suffocate. Fuck. The brownie was still working its magic on me, and all I could think about was Luther's ass, on my face, right now.

"Ain't polite to stare, kid," Luther chided. blushed, cleared my throat.

"Sorry! Didn't mean to, sir. I mean Luther. I was... um. Looking at your tattoo. What's it say?"

Luther laughed. He clearly didn't believe me, but was amused by my fumbled lie. He cocked his eyebrow again.

"Go Big or Go Home," he replied, going to work on inspecting the toilet. He leaned over, lifted the lid of the tank, nodded, put it back down. Jiggled the handle, gave the toilet a flush, satisfied when it worked perfectly. "Just a stupid thing I did in college because my friends dared me." He met my eyes for a moment. "You wouldn't know anything about that would you? Doing stupid things in college?"

I laughed. Blushed.

"Nah, Luther. I stay out of trouble. Mostly."

"Mostly, he says," Luther chuckled. "I bet. Handsome kid like you knows to avoid trouble. Good head on your shoulders."

Handsome. He's into me. Say something sexy. Something funny.

"No complaints," I said. I looked Luther straight in the eye, grinning. "About my head, I mean.

Your turn, big guy. Go big or go home indeed.

There was a beat. Luther's eyes widened and he pressed his lips together. He didn't respond verbally, but I swear he smiled a little.

Fuck. I'd read him wrong. He was just being polite. I don't know how to flirt with dudes. Usually we just get drunk and fuck and pretend like it never happened.

Luther stood to his full jaw-dropping height again, rubbing his knees a moment before stepping over to the large enclosed glass shower which dominated the bathroom. Well, it had dominated the room before Luther "Dominates Every Room He Enters" entered.