Sean, the construction manager - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 2

The house woke up like a job site because it was one.

Sawdust in the hallway. A radio on a paint bucket doing classic rock nobody under forty requested. Somebody’s impact driver in what used to be the dining room. I came down in yesterday’s campus hoodie with toothpaste still losing to the taste I went to bed with, and Sean was already in the gutted kitchen with a man I had never seen eat cereal at our island.

The man was bigger than Sean in the way a doorway is bigger than a door. Shaved head. Full beard gone a little russet at the edges. Tank top that had started the morning a color and was now just wet. Tattoos from the wrist up under drywall dust, a black band around one thick bicep, something scripted on the side of his neck I couldn’t read from the stairs. Work pants. Boots that had opinions about our floorboards. He had a coffee cup on the plastic that covered the counter and he was laughing at something Sean said about a supplier.

Sean still had the red cap. Gray tank. The same body that had been on the other side of a worn glory hole eighteen hours ago. Blondish hair stuck down at the temples like he’d already been outside.

“Little bro.” Sean said, without looking at me first. Then he looked. The look lasted a half-second longer than a boss in somebody’s parents’ house is supposed to look at the boy who lives upstairs. “This is Holt. He owns half the headache. Holt, this is David. He lives here. He’s the reason we can’t demo the upstairs bathroom till Friday.”

Holt’s eyes went over me the way guys in crews look at a floor plan. Fast. Not unkind. Not interested, not yet. A nod.

“What’s up.”

“Hey.”

My voice came out like I had not had a stranger’s cock in my throat at 5:40 p.m. and then my house’s contractor’s cock after that. Sean’s mouth did the small thing it does when a measurement is off and he’s going to let it ride until the client leaves.

“College?” he asked.

“Later.”

“Don’t trip on the hose in the hall. Holt leaves his shit like a trail of breadcrumbs.”

Holt snorted. “Your van’s a landfill, don’t start.”

They went back to lead times. I poured cereal I didn’t want. The spoon hit my teeth. Holt’s laugh was lower than Sean’s. When he reached for the coffee the tattoos flexed and the tank lifted and there was dark hair on his stomach and I looked at the fridge magnet of a pizza place that closed in 2019.

Sean wiped his forehead with the heel of his hand. The same hand that had held the top of a stall wall. He caught me looking at the hand. He didn’t smile. He also didn’t look away first.

“We’re in the back today,” he told me, like I had asked. “If you need the kitchen after three, tough. Cabinets.”

“Okay.”

Holt crushed the paper cup. “Boy’s polite, last client’s kid told me to go fuck myself for parking on the grass.”

“David’s the good one,” Sean said.

He said it the way he said born for it to the guy in the outer room. Same register. Different room. My ears went hot. I took the bowl upstairs and sat on my bed and listened to them through the floor. They didn’t stay in the kitchen.

Ten minutes later the boots were in the hallway outside my door. The upstairs bathroom is a shell. No door. Plastic where a wall used to be. Sean’s voice came through it like the house had decided I should hear the work.

“Hold the drywall. I said hold it, not marry it.”

Holt laughed. Something heavy hit a stud. A grunt. The kind of sound a chest makes when a man lifts what he shouldn’t lift alone.

“You’re sweating through the cap, pretty boy.”

“It’s August. Shut up and lift.”

I sat on the bed with the cereal going soggy and looked at the strip of plastic. If I leaned I could see a shoulder. Holt’s. Tattoo band shiny. Then Sean stepping into the gap to grab a screw gun, tank already black down the spine, the line of his back working. The mustache. The red cap brim. The body I had swallowed yesterday standing four feet from my pillow talking about vapor barrier.

Holt said, “Boy always home in the day?”

Sean didn’t look at the plastic. “Sometimes. College. He skips. Don’t tell his mom.”

“He looked at you weird.”

“Everybody looks at me weird. I’ve got a face.”

“Not like that.”

A beat. The screw gun whined.

Sean said, “He’s the client’s son. Be normal.”

“I am normal. You’re the one who went quiet when he came down the stairs.”

“I was drinking coffee.”

“You were looking at his mouth, are you gay now, dude?”

Sean’s laugh was short and not for me. 

“Fuck off, bro. You’re bored. Hang the board.”

They hung the board. The plastic sucked in and out with the fan. I watched Sean’s throat move when he drank from a bottle. Water ran into the chest hair at the collar of the tank. Holt wiped his shaved head with the hem of his shirt and I saw the stomach hair and the belt. He was so hot, rougher than Sean, if that’s even possible.

I put the bowl on the nightstand. I didn’t eat it.

Sean passed my door on the way back down. He didn’t knock. He knocked the frame with two knuckles anyway, the way you knock when you know somebody’s listening.

“We’re heading to the store for supplies,” he said to the wood. Not a question.

I didn’t answer.

His boots went down. Holt’s followed. The hose in the hall dragged.

Impact driver. Sean swearing at a level. Holt laughing. The house smelled like sweat and cut wood.

I skipped class, again.

I told myself I was going to the library. I drove past the library. The north loop was the same wrecked playground and the fountain that tastes like coins. Four-ten in the afternoon. August sitting on the roof of the bathroom like a hand.

Two guys before anything that mattered.

First was a man in cycling kit who said thanks, bud like I’d handed him a bottle. Clean. Quick. I barely remember his face because I was listening for boots.

Second was older, wedding ring, cologne fighting the bleach. He tried to facefuck me, but his cock was nothing special. I let him. He came with a sound he tried to swallow and left a twenty on the toilet tank like the stall was a vending machine. I left the twenty there. I wasn’t there for tips.

Tile. Grout in my knees. The wall’s phone numbers. Mouth till 6. An arrow that had been redrawn so many times the paint was a bruise.

The outer door banged at four-fifty.

Two voices.

One of them I knew from my hallway and from yesterday’s wood.

“Told you,” Sean said. Not loud. Pleased. The job-site voice when a delivery shows up on time. “Bitch sucks like a vacuum. Yesterday he swallowed every drop. Didn’t even complain one single time.”

A second voice. Lower. The coffee laugh from my kitchen.

“Alright. Let’s see if you’re full of shit.”

Holt.

My mouth filled with spit before the stall door even opened. I put my eye to the hole because I am built that way. Red cap. Gray tank gone darker since morning. Next to him: shaved head, beard, the neck tattoo, the same wet tank from the island. Holt had changed into a black one that said the company name in cracked letters. Boots. A belt he was already undoing.

“Brought my partner,” Sean said to the hole, to me, to the religion of not knowing. “He didn’t believe me there’s an available cock slut here. Now he gets to see.”

Belts. Shorts. A cock that was not Sean’s came through first.

Thicker at the base. Veiny. A head that flared like it had been designed to stretch. Darker than Sean’s. The smell was workday — sawdust and salt and a man who had been carrying sheetrock in a house I sleep in. I could see chest hair in the V of the tank when Holt stepped up. I could see the tattoo band on the bicep when he braced a hand on the wood.

“Suck it,” Holt said. Not curious, demanding. Testing. “Let’s see if you’re as hungry as he said.”

I opened.

He was thicker than Sean. My lips widened around him. I gagged when he decided the back of my tongue was not the destination. Spit ran. He made a sound like a man finding out a rumor was underbuilt.

Sean laughed on his side of the wall. Close. I could picture the cap brim, the mustache, the arms folded like he was watching a subfloor go down.

“See? Cock-hungry. I don’t lie about labor.”

Holt grabbed the top of the stall and used my throat in short hard strokes that had no interest in my breathing schedule. Every time he bottomed out I choked and the spit hit the tile in a string. He did not care. The wood creaked.

“Fuck. Tight. Sean.”

“I know, I told ya, bro.”

Holt pulled out shiny. The head dragged my bottom lip.

“Your turn. I want to watch how he handles yours when he already can’t feel his jaw.”

Sean’s cock replaced him like they’d rehearsed it. The curve I already knew. Uncut. Ugly. The park-run musk under the day’s drywall. I made a noise I hoped the wood ate and took him to the root because yesterday had not been enough and because Holt was standing there judging the work.

Sean groaned, low.

“Shit. He’s better today.”

“Fuck his throat,” Holt said. Casual. A foreman. “Make him gag on it. I want to hear it.”

Sean listened. He hammered. The wall complained. I coughed and stayed on the O he’d taught me yesterday, lips sealed to the worn edge, suckhole on the clock. Holt’s boot shifted. I saw the toe. I saw a hand that was not Sean’s rest on the partition above the hole like he needed the building to hold still.

They switched.

Holt thick and mean, then Sean curved and meaner, then Holt again. They talked over me like I was a tool on a bench.

“Look at him drool.”

“Yesterday he didn’t spill. Let’s see if he can do two.”

“Suckhole’s a professional.”

“Don’t call him that. Makes it weird.”

Sean laughed. “You’re in a park bathroom with your dick in a hole. We’re past weird.”

They found a rhythm that had nothing to do with me.

Holt would take ten strokes — thick, flattening my tongue, the flared head punching the spot that made my eyes go. Then he’d pull out and slap the wet length once against the rim of the hole like he was knocking. Sean would fill the space before I could swallow right. The curve hooked. Different problem. Same job. Holt counted under his breath like it was reps.

“Eight. Nine. Give it back.”

Sean gave it back. They were smiling. I could hear it in the way the air left them. Two guys on a break who had found a better break.

“He does that thing with his tongue,” Sean said, almost generous. “Under the head. Learned it somewhere.”

“Learned it on you yesterday.”

“Maybe.” Sean’s hips snapped. The stall rattled. “Maybe he’s been practicing on the whole zip code. I don’t care, to be honest.”

Holt leaned his forearm on the wood and watched Sean use me. I saw the tattoo from the hole. I saw the beard. I saw him spit in his palm and stroke himself while he waited his turn like the stall was a bench and I was the set.

“My turn. Don’t finish.”

“I’m not sixteen.”

Holt took me all the way down and held. My nose hit the partition. I gagged around him and he groaned like the sound was the point.

“Yeah. That’s the noise. Make that again.”

I made it because there was no other setting. Spit sheeted off my chin. My hands were on my own thighs because the rules of a gloryhole are you don’t reach through unless they reach first. Holt reached first. Two fingers on my jaw, steering the angle, checking I was still a mouth and not a machine.

Sean said, “Don’t leave a mark. He’s got a house.”

“I’m in his house, parking at his garage right now.”

“You know what I mean.”

Holt laughed and let go of my jaw and went back to fucking my throat like the warning had been a joke he intended to remember later.

Holt’s fingers came through the gap for a second and touched my cheek, checking the mess, and went away. The touch was worse than the facefuck. It made it a person. It made it the man who had said what’s up over a plastic cup of coffee in my parents’ plastic-covered kitchen.

My jaw burned. My eyes ran. The stall smelled like them — two workdays stacked, beer somebody had on their breath from lunch, the bleach fighting a losing war. I thought about the upstairs hallway and the hose Holt left like breadcrumbs and the way Sean had said David’s the good one.

Holt went first.

He shoved in to the hilt and held, a growl that belonged in the warehouse they both own, and came in heavy ropes that hit the back of my throat faster than I could count. I swallowed. Some still broke the corner of my mouth and ran. He fucked the last of it in slow, making a point.

“Take it. Yeah. Sean wasn’t lying.”

He pulled out. Sean was already there.

“Open. Don’t waste mine.”

He used me rougher for having waited. The curve punched. I heard him breathing like the end of a run. When he came it was more than yesterday, or it felt like more because Holt’s load was still sitting in me and the two tastes stacked. He told me to swallow. I did. He told me again. I did again.

Quiet.

Just breath and a drip on tile and a truck door in the lot.

Holt said, “Jesus Christ.”

Sean said, “Told you.” Smug. The cabinets voice. “We’re coming back. Maybe I bring a couple from the crew. See what he does with a lineup.”

A slap on the wood. Two. Like a goodbye to a job well signed off.

“See you tomorrow, cocksucker.”

Boots. The outer door. Sean’s dry laugh and Holt saying something about needing a cigarette he didn’t smoke. Then the park. Birds. A stroller somewhere it shouldn’t be.

I stayed on my knees until my feet woke up.

I washed at the sink that only ran cold. The metal dispenser gave me a face that had done work. I looked like a person who had to drive home to a house where those two men were installing my parents’ life.

Sean’s van was in the driveway. Holt’s truck behind it, company magnet on the door.

They were on the back steps with beers when I came through the plastic. Six o’clock sun. Sawdust in the air turning gold. Sean’s cap backwards now. Holt’s tank even worse. A level on the rail. They looked like a catalog for a life I was not built for.

Sean saw me and lifted the can an inch.

“Classes ended early?”

“Something like that.”

Holt squinted at me. Not the stall look. The island look. Then a second look that had new information in it and no way to put the information down.

“You alright?” Holt asked. “You look cooked.”

“Heat.”

Sean’s mouth did the measurement thing again. He drank. He didn’t offer me a beer. He also didn’t tell me to get out of the sun. He let me stand there in the doorway with the taste of both of them under the cold water and the park still in my knees.

“We’re wrapping in twenty,” Sean said. “Don’t lock the side. Holt’s got a blade in the hall.”

“Okay.”

“Little bro.”

I looked at him.

He held the look. Not long enough for Holt to file it. Long enough for me.

“Eat something,” he said. “You look tired.”

I went upstairs.

I sat on the bed. The impact driver started again, then stopped. Their voices came up through the floorboards. Holt laughed. Sean said the client — my dad — wanted the tile dumped by Thursday. Normal. A house being gutted. Two men who had just taken turns in my throat talking about thinset.

I tasted them when I swallowed.

I thought about the crew. Five, six guys. Warehouse. Sean saying it like a schedule.

I thought about Holt saying don’t call him that, makes it weird, and Sean saying we were past weird, and the fact that neither of them knew the boy in the hole had just poured cereal across from them.

Or Holt was starting to know and didn’t have the sentence for it.

Sean knew how I sucked. He did not know my face in that stall. That was the whole religion.

I showered until the water went honest cold. I did not jerk off. I lay on top of the sheet in the heat and listened to the van start and Holt’s truck follow it down the street and the house go suddenly too quiet, just the plastic rustling when the AC remembered it existed.

My phone lit up.

Unknown number. Local. 

tomorrow. same time. don’t be late.

He took my number from the stall wall.

Then, after a minute:

My business partner wants a rematch. he doesn’t say that about mouths. consider it a compliment.

No name. I didn’t need one.

I saved the number under a contact that said Sean (Construction Manager).

I left it on the nightstand face-down.

Downstairs the hose was still in the hall, like breadcrumbs.

I was going back tomorrow.

The wall would still be there.

So would they.

And if Sean ever kicked a stall door in, the secret ended.

Until then I was a hole that lived upstairs from the best blowjob of his life, and he was the playboy I remember from high school, on my back steps with a beer, telling Holt the boy was the good one.

I fell asleep with the window open and the park still on my mind and the next afternoon already decided.