BOILER ROOM

Story by Mike Williams (Photos by Nova, from the Nova loop "The Boiler Room," featuring Dean Goodman (dick) and Buck Williams. Date Unknown) Steve was only nineteen years old and his job at the Amery Iron Works was the first position he'd obtained after leaving high school. He'd planned on becoming a journeyman plumber at night while he labored at Amery in the day. The work was hard and the hours were long but Steve was a tough, determined kid with a lot of guts and energy. Being on the track team at Central High had kept the young hunk in tip top condition. A stiff set of barrel-like biceps bulged forth from the sweaty white shirt he wore underneath his olive-drab uniform. Beads of warm perspiration dripped from his forehead as Steve hoisted up a twelve foot slab of iron pipe. "Damn!" he grunted as he shoved the pipe into one of the long oak stalls that held the sections after they were forged and cooled. "This shit weighs a ton!" He groaned to himself, his solid, well developed thighs straining to support the weight as he moved the iron. "Need any help?" Steve's boss, Dave, asked. "Naw — I can handle it," Steve replied. He really could have made use of the assistance but ego, as well as a sense of responsibility, made him refrain from letting anyone do his job for him. "Sure 'bout that?" Dave reiterated. "That stuff is pretty tough to move." "I'm pretty tough myself, Dave, so I think I can handle it." "Okay," Dave said, grinning as he saw a vague representation of his own stubbornness in the eager attitude of the boy. "Call me, though, if there's any trouble." "Sure — sure I will," Steve replied, though both he and Dave knew he'd never ask for help. Dave was in his late thirties but had the body of an athletic college kid. Working day in, day out, in the rugged confines of the iron factory had left the stud with a well-developed frame. His fingers were rigid pillars of flesh and bone, long, stiff cylinders that could toss around chunks of iron like they were made of Styrofoam. "I need a beer!" Dave thought to himself. Drinking on the job was against the rules but the management knew that if they wanted to keep Dave within their company, they had to tolerate his periodic beer breaks as they were something he wouldn't do without. He only drank two or three cans on any given shift so they knew it wasn't a privilege that he overly abused. He stood behind one of the huge ovens that could melt down a hunk of iron in seconds. He chugged down a warm can of beer and tossed the empty aluminum can into the furnace, watching it immediately disintegrate in the voracious heat of the flames. "Drinkin' on the job again," Steve joked as he drove by Dave in one of the company forklifts. "How'd ya like to get your ass tossed into that oven?" Dave quipped. "How'd ya like to get run over with a forklift?" Steve rebutted. The two men had become pretty good buddies during the six months that Steve had worked at the factory. They had an unspoken understanding existing between them, a kind of "latent camaraderie" that made them feel comfortable and close to one another. Steve's young, muscular buns hung over the edge of the forklift seat as he drove by. Dave caught an unconscious glimpse of the rugged haunches as Steve passed. There was something about the kid that he couldn't explain, a positive surge he experienced whenever he was close to the hard working boy. Dave chose to enjoy rather than question the sensation. Dave was a tall, sinewy morsel of masculine meat. From the top of his tantalizing torso to the bottom of his large, sweaty and well-structured feet, rigidly trapped within the steamy leather confines of the dirt-caked work boots, he was a walking definition of the word "hunk." His long, lean legs were firm pillars of well-developed flesh that had hiked endless miles through piles of iron and machinery at the factory. He was a working man, a tough, laboring nine-to-fiver, who was no stranger to sore muscles or hard earned sweat. Dave struck a match on the cold surface of a cement wall and lit up one of the hand rolled cigarettes he always smoked. Spirals of charcoal gray haze drifted up and around the bristly locks of hair peering forth from beneath his denim work cap. For an instant, the image of Steve's tight, chunky buns hanging over the edge of the forklift seat invaded his thoughts and he quickly drove the picture from his mind. Steve sailed by in the forklift again and called out to Dave as he passed. "Need a lift, mister?" he quipped. "Sure," Dave replied as he hopped onto the front of the truck and hung on with one arm as Steve pushed it into first and drove through the factory. "Fuck it," Dave said. "Let's take a break." "Won't argue with that," Steve replied. "Wanna smoke a joint in the boiler room?" "I didn't know you blew pot," Steve remarked. "Yeah, well just don't broadcast it to the world, smart ass." "Hey — do I look like an announcer?" Steve snapped back, sarcastically. "Let's go!" Steve left the forklift outside the door of the boiler room and the two hunky men shuffled inside. The place was a small, dimly lit cubicle, poorly ventilated, stuffy and very warm. "This room's a real shithole," Steve remarked. "Sorry, boy, I didn't have time to drive you to the Ritz just to smoke a joint." "Yeah, I can see I'd better not waste my time trying to reach room service." The men both laughed. Dave whipped out a fat, firmly rolled joint, lit it, and then passed it to Steve. The young, sweaty boy took a long, deep hit from the weed, sucking in a tough, potent dose of the dynamite grass. He handed the pot to Dave and the well-built iron worker grabbed a rough toke from the smoldering "J." Steve laid back against the warm, insulated shield covering the raging boiler as the narcotic made a rapid dash to his brain. His eyes watered slightly and turned red, he swayed somewhat as he felt the familiar floating sensation of a stoned cold high. "Good stuff," he commented. "If you're gonna do it, do it with the best, I always say," Steve replied as the soothing waves of intoxication slowly swept across his body. "You know, you're one of the best workers in this whole fuckin' place," Dave said. "Yeah, well, thanks man, I do my best." Dave's eyes met Steve's for a brief, suggestive moment. "I can tell by the good shape your body's in that you work hard around here." "Checkin' out my body now, Dave?" Steve responded sweetly. "Shit no, but a guy notices another dude's body when it's in good shape, what's wrong with that?" "Nothin'," Steve said. "Nothin' at all." Carefully, Steve allowed his hand to move towards his crotch. Dave's eyes followed the path to the young boy's massive paw. With no objection to the movement from his boss, Steve began to rub the massive mound within the confines of his mechanics uniform. Dave said nothing at first but simply stared at the lump that was rapidly increasing in size. "Touch it," Steve said to Dave. Slowly, Dave's hand reached for the rugged rafter throbbing in the boy's pants. As Dave's fingers touched Steve's cock, the young iron worker emitted a low, soft groan. Dave allowed his hand to get a firmer grip on the generous shank. He began groping the dynamite dude he had secretly coveted for so long. Steve leaned back and closed his wide, chestnut eyes as the hunky boss man felt him up. Then, Steve pulled down the long, body length zipper that ran up the torso of his uniform. He flopped out a thick, ivory colored rafter of all male meat. Instantly, Dave wrapped his fingers around the pulsating probe and jerked it hard until it was a full, ten inch beam of firm, erect flesh. "Suck it," Steve said. "Suck my dick, man!" Dave crouched to his knees on the musky smelling dirt floor of the boiler room. He pulled Steve's uniform pants down and then dragged off the boy's white jockey briefs. He paused for an instant, his face only inches from the well hung slab dangling from Steve's crotch. "Come on, man — do it!" Steve reiterated in a commanding tone. Dave wrapped his tight, boss man lips around Steve's barrel-like cock. His mouth was filled with the rich taste of dank sweat and caked male body odor. Within his throat, the dick swelled again to a full, throbbing, ten inches. Steve began gyrating his hips as he shoved that fat ramrod deep into his boss's gullet. Dave whipped out his dick, a thick, eleven inch chunk of wicked meat. He stroked his stick as he blew his buddy in the filthy boiler room. Again and again, Steve rammed, rammed, rammed the quivering cock into Dave's throat. Wads of saliva gushed from the sides of the boss man's mouth as the boy put it to him. Steve's movements became quicker and quicker. Suddenly, he flung a hot glob of gelatinous sperm into Dave's mouth and the big boss sucked down the rich, steamy gushes of molten jizz. Seconds later, Dave's rod chucked up a pearly white load of cum that melted into the charcoal dirt floor of the boiler room. Dave stood up, buttoned his pants and smiled as he ruffled up Steve's shaggy hair. "Back to work?" he grinned. "Yeah," Steve said, smiling. "Back to work."