Body Work #3
As he listened to the heavy, metallic clanks of Sam locking up the bays, Elliot couldn't help but wonder if he was getting himself into the absolute most trouble of his life—or if, finally, he was getting himself out of it.
He waited, staring at the small, greasy cardboard box Sam had pointed out on the coffee table before disappearing back into the garage.
Do you like ’em cream-filled? Elliot replayed the line in his mind, savoring Sam’s deep, warm tone and the way it spread through his belly like a swallow of rich, dark coffee.
At the time, he could only assume it had just been a mechanic offering his stranded customer a snack.
But left alone in the quiet hum of the A/C, Elliot’s mind had taken the innocuous comment and twisted it into something filthier by the moment.
He eyed the donuts, his gaze fixing on the thick, white cream oozing from the small puncture hole in the plump dough. He couldn't stop staring at it.
His breathing grew shallow, and at some point, his imagination seized on the image and ran wild, plunging straight into fantasies of hard gay sex: a big, hard cock—maybe like Sam’s?—pumping white, creamy cum deep into tight holes, including one Elliot knew he wasn’t supposed to be imagining.
The vivid, intrusive thoughts hit him like a freight train.
He pictured Sam’s massive, grease-smudged hands gripping his hips, imagining the big mechanic slamming his thick cock deep into his pink asshole—not any bigger than the tight holes in those donuts.
He envisioned Sam groaning, his heavy body shuddering as he unloaded a torrent of hot, virile cum deep into Elliot’s belly, leaving him stretched and dripping just like the pastries on the table.
The visceral intensity of the thought left Elliot feeling weak and scatterbrained.
Elliot was repulsed by how quickly his brain had conjured the image, yet his body betrayed him completely; his dick grew hard and stiff, and pressed firmly against the zipper of the borrowed blue coveralls.
I want him, he thought. And I hate it.
Before he could spiral any further, the heavy metal door swung open, and Sam stepped back into the waiting room.
"Ready?" Sam asked, tossing a set of keys into his palm.
Elliot swallowed hard, crossing his legs slightly to hide the tent in his lap. "Yeah. Lead the way."
They stepped out of the freezing shop and into the desert evening.
The brutal heat of the afternoon had broken, replaced by a cooler, dry evening breeze that felt heavenly against Elliot’s skin.
The setting sun was putting on a spectacular show over the rugged Nevada hills and mountains, painting the sky in violent streaks of bruised purple, burnt orange, and deep crimson.
The only sound was the heavy crunch of gravel under their feet as they walked toward the small house out back.
Elliot looked around, a surreal, floating sensation washing over him.
This place was unlike anywhere he had ever been.
It was isolated, quiet, and completely disconnected from his reality back in LA or even Tennessee where even the quietest moments were turned into chainsaw buzzing of mosquitos and other bugs.
And yet, wrapped in this bizarre isolation, he felt an unprecedented sense of freedom. Out here, under the massive, bleeding sky, he felt like he could finally explore the hidden, guarded parts of himself without judgment.
Elliot spotted a gleaming motorcycle in the driveway and imagined Sam straddling it, tearing down the desert roads. A deep, potent shiver ran through him. This wasn’t mere curiosity anymore. It was genuine attraction.
They stepped onto the front porch, and Elliot noticed a porch swing. He imagined himself sitting there with Sam, watching sunsets. He imagined a life with the mechanic here in this sandy paradise, then shook his head as though he could physically knock the ridiculous notion loose.
Sam pushed open the front door, flicking on a warm, amber lamp.
The inside of the house was a shock. Elliot had braced himself for a bachelor pad full of motor oil stains and maybe strewn engine parts on furniture.
Instead, the home was quaint, immaculately maintained, and beautifully decorated with modern, understated earthy tones and comfortable, plush furniture.
"Wow," Elliot breathed, looking around. "This is... really nice. I'm kind of surprised there aren't dreamcatchers and coyote skulls everywhere. Don’t get me wrong—that would have been badass, too."
Sam chuckled, a deep, rich sound. “Can’t take the credit. My sister came through a few months ago and fixed the place up. Said I was living like a caveman. A year ago? It probably would’ve looked a lot more like what you had in mind.”
"Well, she's got a great eye," Elliot said, running a hand over the back of a woven armchair. "I'm an art student. Hoping to get into movie-making, actually, which is why I'm going to college in Los Angeles."
Sam paused, turning to look at Elliot. His gaze dragged slowly down the boy's slender frame, lingering for a fraction of a second before meeting his hazel eyes again.
"Hollywood, huh?" Sam murmured, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Be careful out there. It can be a hard city when you're young and cute. "
He punctuated the warning with a slow, deliberate wink.
Elliot felt the words strike him deep in his chest, sending a hot shiver straight down to his groin. Young and cute? He swallowed dryly, his mind racing, wondering exactly what Sam meant by that, and just how much of a double-meaning was layered beneath that wink.
"Right this way," Sam continued, seemingly unaffected, leading Elliot down a short hallway to the spare bedroom.
The room was a stark contrast to the rest of the house. It was covered in retro wood paneling, smelling faintly of cedar and clean laundry. "Sorry," Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck. "My sister hasn't quite reached this room with her decorator's touch yet."
"It's perfect," Elliot said earnestly. He was enamored with the vintage charm of it—a small ceramic cactus-shaped alarm clock on the nightstand, a few random tchotchkes on a bookshelf, and a heavy, old box-TV sitting on a wooden dresser.
"Bathroom's attached right there. Shower's got good pressure, actually," Sam pointed out. "And I've got some old clothes in the closet that should fit you pretty well, if you want to get out of those coveralls. I'm gonna run around the corner and grab us some dinner. You good with burgers?"
"Burgers sound amazing. Thanks.”
"Alright. Be back in fifteen," Sam said, turning on his heel and pulling the front door shut behind him a moment later.
Alone in the quiet house, Elliot pulled his phone from the coveralls.
Still zero bars. He spotted an old, cream-colored landline phone on the bedside table, but a funny realization washed over him: he didn't feel the need to call anybody.
He didn't want to be rescued. He felt incredibly good exactly where he was.
Curious, he walked over to the closet and pulled the bi-fold doors open.
Sitting on the top shelf were a few neatly folded t-shirts and a pair of athletic shorts.
But as he reached up, his hand brushed against something tucked in the back corner.
He pulled it down. It was a heavy, leather-bound photo album.
Elliot sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. The pages were filled with glossy magazine tear-outs and professional photography from the early 2000s.
Elliot’s jaw went slack. It was magazine advertisements and photographs featuring Sam, and he couldn't have been older than eighteen or twenty.
Elliot couldn't believe how breathtakingly beautiful the young Sam was.
He had the same rugged jawline, but his features were softer, his hair perfectly styled, his muscular physique oiled and gleaming under studio lights.
Elliot turned the page, and his breath hitched in his throat. It was a full-page cologne ad: Sam, completely naked against a lush tropical backdrop, with nothing but a strategically placed palm leaf concealing his manhood.
The sheer masculinity, the sculpted V-line pointing down toward his groin, the raw sexual energy radiating from the glossy page—it was intoxicating. Even when Sam was younger, he looked nearly twice Elliot’s size—proof that he’d always been a big, muscular guy.
A soft, ragged moan escaped Elliot’s lips.
The erection that had been simmering since the waiting room flared back to life with a vengeance.
Without thinking, he unzipped the coveralls and slid his hand down into his briefs, wrapping his fingers around his hard, aching dick.
Finally giving it the touch it ached for, he moaned softly, and pulled it out into the cool air of the bedroom, his thumb smearing a bead of pre-cum over his own swollen tip.
He felt ashamed—dirtier than he ever had in his life—but he couldn’t resist. His eyes fixed on the photograph of Sam posing naked, and he began to jerk himself off. Within only a few moments, his strokes grew faster, more urgent, more desperate. He needed this.
He closed his eyes, imagining that it wasn't his own hand wrapped around his dick, but Sam's rough, calloused mechanic hands—maybe even a bit dirty with grease or oil.
But as Elliot stroked himself, a strange realization hit him.
As gorgeous as the young, smooth model in the photos was, Elliot was profoundly more turned on by the older Sam.
He wanted the dirt, the grease, the bulk.
He also wanted the solid, dominating, confident gaze of the man who had just winked at him in the living room—not the more na?ve version from the advertisement.
Still, the sight of Sam was more than enough to keep Elliot’s lust burning.
He lost himself in the younger man’s confident gaze, fixed directly on him from the magazine page, as though the model in the ad were daring him to keep jerking himself off—to stop feeling ashamed and finally take what he wanted.
He continued to feel foolish and embarrassed by his cravings, but it felt too good to stop.