Trade: Part 1 (Patreon)

Hi everyone! It's been a while so thanks for your patience. A lot of my time's been taken up with editing Hall Pass (editing is fully done now, and I'm just over half way through proof reading it, so it should be ready to go pretty soon!), along with general life stuff, jobs, social and family obligations, and even a flash flood!

But anyway, I've finally made a start on my newest story. This one's pretty light-hearted, with a bit less of the "will he leave me" angst of Hall Pass. I haven't decided on a title yet but the working title is Trade, because it's all about a guy who gets cucked by the various tradespeople (ten, altogether I think) who his husband hires to renovate their house. Here's part one.

🔨 🔧 🧰 🪚 👷🏾‍♂️ 🪠 🛻 ⚡️🚽 🪛 🛠️

I’m no handyman, that’s for sure. Good with my brain but not good with my hands. I’ve learned the hard way that I’m inclined to mess up any building work I try. So I’m more than happy to leave that kind of thing to the experts; I strongly believe it’s important to know when to leave something to someone who’ll do a better job of it than you could yourself.

My husband Oscar on the other hand, he’s much better at that kind of thing than I am, and much more willing to give it a try. He’s still very much an amateur, but he’s got patience, and he likes learning new skills. He likes creating something with his own hands, too. He’s done a few small repair jobs since we moved into our new place. And right from the word go when we started talking about our big renovation project he was keen to take charge, which was absolutely fine by me.

We’d still have to leave most of it to the experts — anything that required technical know-how and was essential to do right, at least. But Oscar was keen to manage the process, organise the workers, and be the dogsbody on-site to keep costs down by doing the unskilled gruntwork himself. He figured it would be fun, and that he might learn a few tricks of the trade along the way.

We  moved into the house about a year ago. I’d been a bit hesitant about it at the time because it was clearly a fixer-upper. But it was incredibly charming, a small cottage with some of its original period details still intact and a courtyard out the back that’s big enough for entertaining on summer evenings. The kind of house I’d always imagined myself living in, but given up on pursuing somewhere along the way. We had the money to actually do it now though, as long as we were careful with our cash. We both had decent work, and with Oscar having some time on his hands between projects now was the perfect time. And after five years of living in an apartment, listening to drunk people arguing and street-cleaning trucks trundling past on the street below at all hours of the morning, both of us were captivated by the idea of having a little house of our own.

So it was settled: he’d project manage and be on site to organise things and do the gruntwork, while I’d keep bringing home the bacon and try to think about it all as little as possible.

Oscar really launched himself into it: drawing up designs, researching products, sourcing samples, scoping out tradespeople to do the work. It wasn’t long before we had plans sorted, provided at mates’ rates by an ex-boyfriend of Oscar’s who’s an architect. To be honest I think they were doing more than just working on plans those evenings Oscar would go around to his house, but I didn’t ask and he didn’t say anything. We’ve always had an understanding that he could do what he wants with other guys and tell me as much or as little as he feels like. I don’t think he’d ever realised that I’m always hoping for as much information as possible. 

After about three months of planning and organising things were ready to go, starting with demolishing the bathroom and a section of the back wall. We had a professional demolition guy booked, with Oscar on hand to carry debris back and forth. To be honest I wasn’t looking forward to the mess or the disruption, but I was looking forward to finally being rid of that crusty old, mould-stained bathroom we’d been living with for the past year.

I was about to leave for work when the demolition guy arrived; I opened the door to step outside and there he was standing on the doorstep, arm raised into a fist looking like he was just about to knock. The first thing I noticed was that bicep he had raised: it was big, clearly the result of day after day swinging sledgehammers and lugging pieces of buildings around. He looked dirty, dust and scuff-marks all over his jeans. He had a thick neck, stubble, and a buzzcut, and he looked like the kind of guy you definitely didn’t want to get into a fight with down at the pub.

“Hey,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake mine. “Dave. You Oscar?”

“No, that’s my husband,” I told him, “I’m James. Come on in.” We shook hands, and he stepped inside. As he did I looked down at his grubby work boots and had a minor freak-out about the state our carpet was going to be in by the time this process was ended. But I reminded myself that Oscar would do his best to keep things tidy and organised.

“Oscar’s down the back of the house,” I told him. “I’m just leaving for work. Was nice to meet you, I hope it all goes well.”

“Thanks mate,” he said, traipsing down the hallway to find Oscar.

I grabbed my bag, keen to get out of there and glad I didn’t have to be around for any of this. I stepped outside, and was immediately stopped in my tracks when I saw Dave’s ute parked outside the front door next to the letterbox. In big orange lettering on the side of the ute it said Wrecked By Dave, and the slogan under the name said Putting the D in demolition. 

I was so startled that I just stood there staring at it for a good little while. Surely the guy must realise that the name and slogan he’d chosen sound a little bit… sexual? And not just that, a little visceral too. I couldn’t help for a second picturing muscly Dave absolutely destroying some twunk’s hole, and I felt myself blushing. 

I wondered if maybe it was just a case of me reading too much into it. Maybe gay brain was making me see sexual innuendo where it didn’t really exist.

But nah, it was some pretty in-your-face branding. Surely it was intentional. I guess if you’re a small operation competing against every other business in the city you have to do something to get people’s attention. Presumably some people would hire him just because they found the sign on his truck funny. And maybe there would even be a few people — the stereotypical unsatisfied wife — who’d actually hire him hoping they’d get the ‘D’. 

For a second I wondered if that was why Oscar had picked him.

But then I shook the thought out of my head with a chuckle, and headed off to work.

When I got home the ute was no longer in the driveway and the house was quiet and still, no sign of any demolition activity going on. I headed first for the demolition zone down the back of the house to find Oscar and survey the damage. Oscar wasn’t in there though. Instead, I found him in our bedroom splayed naked on the bed, half dozing.

“Hey,” he said sleepily, sensing me come in.

“What’s going on?” I asked. But as I surveyed the crumpled sheets and Oscar’s clothes scattered haphazardly around the room, including in the doorway, I felt like I already knew the answer.

Oscar opened his eyes, looked up at me with a bashful expression on his face. “I got wrecked by Dave,” he told me.

I was not surprised in the slightest. I was more aroused than I’d expected to be though; I felt the blood flow to my dick and start it to swell up, my body telling me I had to know more.

I sat down on the bed and asked Oscar, “What happened?”

He grinned like he was reliving a good dream. “He was so hot swinging that big-ass sledgehammer, smashing shit,” he told me. “And then he was showing me his technique, and kinda manhandling me when he was getting me into the right stance. I was really turned on. And I guess he could tell.”

“What did he do?” I asked, desperate for details.

“He was kinda rough,” Oscar said, sounding pleased about the fact. “He pushed me down onto my knees and got his cock out and made me suck it. Facefucked me. Then he took me back here and ripped off my pants and just went to town on my ass. Like absolutely pounded it.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Oh yeah of course,” Oscar said. “It wasn’t violent or anything, it was the good kind of rough. My god, my ass is absolutely wrecked though. The name really is apt.”

I felt like it was crass to ask, but at this point I was almost fully hard and I was thinking with my dick. “Can I…?” I gestured at his ass.

“You want to feel it?” he asked, sounding surprised. I nodded, and he told me, “Sure. Go for it.”

I don’t know why but my hand was trembling as I reached down there. I cupped his bubble butt, traced my fingers along till they found his hole, slick from lube. I slid two fingers in there easily, then another, then another. “God you’re so loose,” I said, in awe of how gaping Dave had left it.

“See?” Oscar replied. “He really wrecked it. Baby, it felt amazing. I’ve never been fucked that savagely in my life.”

“And you liked that?”

“Oh yeah I loved it.”

“Oh,” I said. “If I knew you liked it that rough maybe I could have been giving it to you like that every now and then.”

Oscar laughed. “Babe, sorry but you could never. This guy’s in his own league.”

Is it weird that being told that turned me on even more? It probably is; it seemed weird to me when I thought about it later. But right then I was absolutely overwhelmed with the need to give Oscar the kind of rough fucking I’d only just discovered he liked. I was already hard, he was already lubed. So I unbuckled my trousers and shoved my dick in him and pounded his gaping loose ass like I never had before.

Still, when I was done he still said I wasn’t a patch on Dave.