Taken from my story, “Without Words”
I walked along the perimeter fence, sweat prickling my palms, trying to maintain a casual amble to give the impression that I was the kind of guy who did this sort of thing all the time. The site looked deserted until I passed the foreman’s cabin, where the workers sat outside on piles of breeze blocks, chatting idly under the punishing sun as they swigged down cold drinks and munched on sandwiches. He wasn’t with them. That was good. I picked up my pace, determined to find him before he decided to join the lunch crowd.
He wasn’t a sociable guy and I’d never seen him chatting – he just got on with his job – taciturn and focused. It gave me hope that here would be someone who could understand me; who could forgive my lack of social graces and ignore my nervous babbling to see the man underneath; the man with intelligent things to say if only he could pluck up the courage. The man who’d never done anything like this before, but was now carefully dressed in tight jeans and close fitted red t-shirt, intent on risking humiliation just to have a chance. It was now or never, as I was due back in London tomorrow and I knew that my work wouldn’t bring me back to Sheffield for at least another couple of months.
As I rounded the corner of the large, half-finished building, a solitary figure came into view. There was no mistaking the supple grace of his movements as he hopped up onto the scaffolding, measuring tape in hand. My breath hitched when I saw that he was bare-chested under the reflective tabard, the previously covered skin glowing pink where the sun caught it, and spattered with ginger freckles. His body was stocky, heavily muscled; the type you knew would run quickly to fat if deprived of regular manual labour. Yet despite being built like so many of these sturdy Northern men, he moved with a fluidity that belied his size. The strands of hair that escaped his hat glowed in the harsh light like burnished bronze. He was a work of art. I wanted to study him, learn him. Explore him thoroughly.
I cleared my throat, but he didn’t hear me. I waited, paralysed by indecision, clinging on to the wires of the fence panel with white knuckles. Willing him to look down and see me there; to give me that look again that I was sure I’d seen yesterday. That deliberate once over, followed by a slow smile that made my heart lurch and my cock stir.
And then he turned. The moisture leached out of my mouth and I was incapable of forming any words. He must have thought I was a prize idiot, standing there open-mouthed with lust burning in my eyes. I wondered if he even recognised me without the suit. But then that gaze that swept up and down my body, lingering a little longer than necessary, followed by that lazy curve of his lips that seemed to promise so much. He raised an eyebrow, grinned, and pointed to the gate, swinging down from the platform and strolling over with a loose-limbed grace. I followed, stumbling in my haste to get there. We stared at each other through the gate, and I had to look away from the intensity in those green eyes. I watched his grimy hands as they deftly turned the wheels on the padlock, the dust trapped in the creases of his knuckles. His hands were strong and broad, freckled, the hairs glowing like copper filaments in the sunlight, but surprisingly nimble for a builder. I swallowed audibly as I imagined what those hands could do to me. Those thick yet skilful fingers…
The gate swung open and I slipped through, brushing against his arm as he pushed it closed again. The touch raised goosebumps on my arm despite the heat. This close I could smell him; the tang of fresh sweat mingled with something spicy. My mouth started to water as I wondered how he would taste, picturing myself licking at his stubbly neck, then tasting other parts of him. My jeans began to feel uncomfortable as my cock swelled and I fought to get a grip on myself. It wasn’t like we could do anything about it here at the gate, in full view of passing traffic.
“I’m Nick,” I blurted out, but clamped my mouth shut before I ruined things by telling him my middle names, date of birth or any other nonsense.
He walked off, turning to beckon after a few yards, so I trailed behind him; absurd fears fighting with my rampant lust as we moved further into the hush of the deserted site. I didn’t even know his name, and the lack of any dialogue was starting to freak me out, but it was also pretty kinky. Besides, the less we talked the less chance I had to show myself up. I concentrated on the way his muscular buttocks moved under their denim cladding. Anything to distract myself from the possibility of humiliation, or worse. He disappeared behind a sheet of plastic hanging in a doorway. I followed. What else could I do?