Body Work #4
He pumped his fist faster, his hips bucking slightly off the edge of the mattress, teetering right on the edge of a climax. He didn’t even know where he’d aim his load when he came. For once, he wasn’t thinking that far ahead—and that was part of the thrill.
Suddenly, the heavy thud of the front door opening echoed through the small house.
Elliot gasped, his eyes flying open.
"Dinner's here!" Sam's deep voice boomed from the kitchen.
Panic seized Elliot.
He frantically shoved his throbbing dick back into his clothes, his hands shaking as he grabbed a pair of athletic shorts and a t-shirt from the closet.
He scrambled out of the coveralls and underwear, pulling the clothes on with frantic, clumsy movements, trying to force his erection to lie flat against his stomach.
Breathing heavily, he stumbled into the attached bathroom and gripped the edges of the sink, staring at his flushed, guilty reflection in the mirror. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted.
"I'm so fucked," Elliot whispered to his reflection.
"Elliot? Dinner's here!" Sam hollered again, the sound of paper bags rustling filtering through the walls.
Elliot squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep, steadying breath, and shouted back, involuntarily licking his lips. "I'm… coming soon!"
His voice dropped to a trembling whisper as he turned back toward the door. “And I hope you do, too.”
Dinner had been a quiet, somewhat awkward affair, mostly because Sam was still technically a stranger, yet Elliot felt an uncanny sense of ease settling over him.
He hadn't felt this comfortable, this profoundly grounded, in a very long time. They’d eaten their burgers in relative silence, the day's exhaustion catching up with them both.
Afterward, Elliot had slipped outside to sit on the old porch swing, letting the cool, dry desert breeze wash over him as the stars began to prick through the ink-black Nevada sky. He welcomed the cover of night after spending the entire day feeling far too exposed.
The screen door then creaked open, and Sam stepped out onto the porch. He held two cheap brown bottles, the glass sweating in the warm evening air.
"Mind if I join you?" Sam asked, his deep voice carrying softly in the quiet night.
"Please," Elliot agreed enthusiastically, shifting over to make room.
“Nice clothes, by the way.” Sam winked, his gaze dropping to the tiny shorts and T-shirt—the thin fabric revealing far too much of the thick bulge of Elliot’s dick and balls between his legs.
Sam leaned against the wooden railing for a moment, looking down at the bottles in his large hands.
"I don't know exactly how old you are," he murmured, a faint smirk playing on his lips, "but since you couldn't drive anywhere tonight even if you wanted to, I'm just going to set one of these right here on the railing.
If it should miraculously disappear? Well, I'd be none the wiser. "
Elliot couldn't help but smile at the smooth delivery. He reached out and grabbed the cold bottle. "I'm twenty-one.” It was a lie, of course. He wouldn’t even turn twenty for another few weeks—but, for now, he figured Sam was better off not knowing.
Sam nodded approvingly and settled his heavy frame onto the swing beside Elliot. "Cheers to the moon, then," he said, tapping his bottle gently against Elliot’s.
Elliot drank plenty at college, but it was nice, for once, not to depend on the guys in his dorm swiping six-packs from the corner gas station whenever he wanted a drink.
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the rhythmic squeak of the swing chains cutting through the quiet. Elliot took a long swig of the cheap beer, the liquid courage loosening the tight knot of nerves in his chest.
He turned his head, looking at the rugged profile of the mechanic bathed in the pale moonlight.
"So," Elliot began, pushing past his internal hesitation. "I was looking for some clothes in the closet earlier, and... well, I saw the photo album."
Sam stopped mid-sip, lowering his bottle slowly. He let out a soft, low chuckle. "Busted."
"What was it like?" Elliot asked, turning fully to face him, drawing his knees up slightly on the swing. "Why aren't you living it up in some hot-tub in Hollywood right now?"
Sam let his head fall back against the wooden slats and gazed up at the stars. “Models have expiration dates, so to speak. You reach a certain age, and the phone calls become fewer and farther between. After all, beautiful young men and women are a dime a dozen in L.A.”
He rolled his broad shoulders. “And if you haven’t put in the work to develop your acting skills, pretty soon the only jobs you can get are the occasional humiliating local TV commercial.”
“Not that I was too good for those,” he added. “I did my share. They paid the bills, but it wasn’t much of a life. The paychecks were too unpredictable so I came back home to Nevada.”
He took another drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I got some pretty wild offers back then, though.” He paused. “Gay porn, believe it or not.”
Elliot’s entire body tensed, but in the best possible way. The air in his lungs caught. He licked his lips, inhaling sharply as a heavy, electric heat pooled instantly in his dick.
Hearing Elliot’s hitched breath, Sam chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the swing. “Yeah. I actually did a couple of shoots,” Sam admitted, his voice dropping into a low, unapologetic rasp. “Hardcore. I topped in both. When you’re built big—and hung—they usually want you on top.”
He laughed as he added, “Fortunately, that was so long ago, those DVDs are probably impossible to find now. Well—not impossible, maybe. But not easy.”
Elliot’s mind was already racing. He was already planning how to find those movies the second he got back to his laptop, desperate to watch a twenty-year-old Sam—just as hulking and gorgeous—having hardcore gay sex.
Hung? Elliot thought. He felt it like a punch in his chest. The mere thought of it all made Elliot’s dick swell harder and hungrier than ever against the thin shorts. He loved and hated how thin and revealing the shorts were—and that he’d grabbed them from Sam’s closet without thinking twice.
"I'm... not surprised," Elliot managed to say, his voice a little breathy. "That you modeled, I mean. Or that they asked you to do… that stuff. You're really handsome. Especially now. For a mechanic in the middle of nowhere."
Sam slowly turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto Elliot’s, processing the compliment. The air between them suddenly felt electric.
"So… what does your girlfriend think of you being all the way out in LA, surrounded by beautiful women all day?" Sam asked smoothly.
Elliot gave a jerky little shrug, staring down at his bottle and picking compulsively at the sticker label on it. "No girlfriend," he said curtly.
Sam jumped a brow, leaning in just a fraction. "Boyfriend?"
Elliot let out an awkward, nervous laugh, shaking his head a little too fast. "No way."
Sam watched him for a long moment. "Nothing wrong with being gay."
"No, I know. Sorry, I wasn't trying to make it sound that way at all," Elliot stammered, his face flushing hot under the moonlight. "It's just that I'm not—Well… I'm straight. Or, well... I'm not exactly...I’m not gay."
Elliot stumbled over his own words, desperately trying to figure out his own identity aloud, right there on the porch. The sudden weight of a large, calloused hand settling warmly over his knee stopped his spiraling instantly.
"Relax," Sam said gently. His thumb stroked a slow, reassuring line across the rough fabric of Elliot’s coveralls. "Good thing about living all the way out here is you can tell your secrets to the stars and just let it all out. Nobody out here to judge you—certainly not me."
Elliot looked down at Sam’s hand on his naked knee, feeling a wave of defeat wash over his stubborn pride. "I don’t think I’m gay, but..."
Sam interrupted him with a warm, rumbling laugh, giving his knee a reassuring shake. "Elliot, come on. Relax. I didn't mean to have an Oprah-moment over your sex life. I was just shootin' the shit. That’s all."
A profound wave of relief washed over the blonde. The pressure vanished, leaving only raw, unfiltered desire in its wake.
“I feel so good out here,” Elliot confessed, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. “I haven’t felt this good in a long time. You have such a nice home, and… I don’t know. Being here just feels good.” He hesitated, then looked at Sam. “You make me feel good.”
Elliot let out an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry I’m not more… poetic.”
Sam played it cool, his expression unreadable in the dim light. But Elliot caught the way Sam bit his lower lip before taking a slow swig of his drink. "Well," Sam murmured, "you make me feel better than I have in a long time, too."
Sam gave Elliot’s knee one last squeeze and started to pull his hand away.
Instinct took over. Elliot’s hand shot out and closed around Sam’s thick, muscular forearm. He held on for a breath, his fingertips registering coarse hair and solid muscle while lust and reckless impulse collided inside him.
Then, maintaining eye contact, Elliot deliberately pulled Sam’s large hand higher, pressing it flat against the bulge in his shorts.
Sam’s breath hitched. Beneath his palm, the college boy’s dick was unmistakably rock-hard, pressing urgently against him through only a few millimeters of thin fabric.
Elliot’s big brown eyes became wide, nervous, and utterly feral, "It's just us and the stars… right?"
Sam stared at him, his gaze darkening with sudden hunger, as though Elliot’s desire had finally given him permission to unleash his own.
He didn't pull his hand away. "I don't exactly have neighbors. Not anywhere nearby. So yeah… it’s just you and me right now."
"What would you do with a college boy like me, out here in the middle of nowhere?" Elliot asked, leaning into Sam’s space as Sam felt the college boy’s pulsing dick under his palm.