Baggy Shorts

Jake thought I was concentrating on his typically long-winded explanation of why the Singapore office hadn't sent in their section of the Arnold proposal, but I wasn't. I was sitting there, rocking back and forward in my leather chair, with my back to the whole spread of the Baltimore Inner Harbor from my eighteenth-floor World Trade Center office and looking right past Jake, over his shoulder, and at what was happening out at the reception desk.

That new eye candy receptionist, Stephanie, was having her effect on the UPS guy. They had become quite chummy in the two weeks she'd worked here. Now he was perched on the counter across from her desk in his brown UPS uniform, baggy shorts and all. He was quite a looker himself. Blond with carefully curled and blown hair and the physique of a serious body builder. He was sitting on the edge of the counter and pulling his legs up with his hands below his knees. It was almost obscene. When he pulled his legs up you could follow the curve of his meaty thighs right up toward his crotch. And now he was pulling his legs apart. If I'd been closer, I know I could see right up to where it got really interesting. And he and Stephanie were just chatting away. It just wasn't natural the way he was showing leg, and it certainly shouldn't be going on in an office. Why, Stephanie might be getting a real eyeful.

Then it hit me. Of course she was getting an eyeful. That's exactly what the UPS guy—and she—wanted to be happening. And I couldn't help it; I wanted to be getting an eyeful too. My balls began to ache and I could feel myself getting hard. Jake just droned on with his half-assed excuses, though, oblivious to what I was trying to cop a look at over his shoulder.

I'd been in a real state for weeks, ever since I'd gone to meet Manuel at the Mount Vernon Stable and Saloon for a nooner and I'd found he'd gone off with some other office dude and had deserted me. I'd grown dependent on the boners Manuel had given me. The least thing now put me in heat. Stephanie was getting up from her desk, and she and the UPS guy were disappearing down the hall. Jake droned on as my mind was racing, imaging Stephanie and the UPS guy back there in a broom closet. Her running her hands up inside the legs of his baggy shorts; finding what she was looking for. Him hiking her skimpy skirt up, tearing at her panties. And then him lifting her and setting her on his raised spike and fucking her up against the wall. I felt myself panting at the image. And it wasn't Stephanie I was panting for; it was the UPS guy and his baggy shorts—that intriguing tunnel up to his treasure chest.

I had to get out of there. I had to get laid. I had to get fucked now.

Jake was in mid sentence when I just stood up, strode out of the office, and headed for the foyer and the elevators. Jake wouldn't think this was unusual. He knew his explanations were lame; I often walked out on him in these circumstances.

When I hit the harbor plaza, I found myself walking away from Inner Harbor and turning east on Lombardy Street and walking into the rougher part of the city, near where the real docks started. Manuel had told me about this place; about this no-holds-barred bar where the Hispanic construction workers gathered and let off tension. And what I needed was to let off some tension.

I walked into the dimly lit bar in my Brooks Brothers silk suit, Egyptian cotton dress shirt, and Thai silk tie. I focused on the bar and walked straight there and ordered a beer before turning around, perching on a bar stool, and surveying the room.

At the other end of the bar from me, a lithe young Hispanic, obviously not long enough in the construction business to really beef up, had been pulled into a hulky black guy perched on a bar stool facing out to the room, the Hispanic's butt pulled into the black guy's package. Baggy pants must have been the signature apparel of those frequenting this bar, because the Hispanic youth had on cargo shorts that hung low on his waist and a white T-shirt and construction boots, and the black guy had on droopy silky basketball shorts, a muscle shirt, and hightop sneakers. What caused me to look in that direction was the black guy, arm muscles rippling, was pulling the T-shirt off the Hispanic. I watched his huge black hands slowly glide down the Hispanic's long, lightly muscled torso. I expected the hands to go under the rim of the cargo pants, but they went down over the cargo pants and rested a moment on the Hispanic's thighs, just above the knees.

Then the black guy's hands went under the hem of the cargo shorts at both leg holes and I watched the material of the shorts bunch up and rise as the hands came up the Hispanic's thighs and met at his still-encased package. The Hispanic got a dreamy look in his eyes and began to purr. He was stretching his torso up inside the black guy's reaching arms and he threw his own arms around the back of the black guy's thick neck. They turned their faces toward each other and were both moaning and groaning as they kissed deeply. I watched what was going on in those cargo pant shorts, mesmerized with the rustling and tenting of the material at the crotch. The black guy was stroking the Hispanic off with one hand and doing something with the ball sack with the other.

The Hispanic began to writhe in the black guy's lap. One of the hands of the black guy—the one that had been working the balls—came out of the leg opening to the shorts and moved to hold the Hispanic tight to him with a palm on his heaving belly. The Hispanic was writhing about and he was giving little panting chirping noises, lost in a controlling jerk off that was inevitably going to bring him to orgasm as he was held tightly into the body of the black guy. I licked my lips in anticipation of what the black guy was going to do as an encore once he'd jacked the young guy off.

I sensed that someone was watching me watch the couple at the end of the bar, and I let my eyes sweep away from the young Hispanic youth being taken. I saw a man eyeing me from across the smoky room. Everyone else around seemed to be well into hooking up—some in fact were already fucking away on the cushy couches at the fringes of the room and on the carpeted stage area in the center of the room. I remember registering surprise at that point because he looked like the hunkiest of the lot, and yet he was the only one alone and not in some phase of fuck at this moment. Other than me.

He was wearing only baggy shorts and workman's boots—and a red bandana around his neck. His massive chest and bulky arm muscles also made clear that he was into heavy construction. Fine, heavy-muscled calves and thighs. I'm sure he could see how deeply in heat I was just from the way I looked at him—and that I liked what I saw in him. He gave me a little satisfied, knowing, possessive sneer, and then as he held my eyes with his, he pushed his butt forward in the lounge chair he was in and opened his legs, and, oh my, I could see a bulbous, red cap hanging low, near to the bottom edge of the bunched up shorts and I could also see all the way up to a heavy, hairy ball sack.

I melted and he had me with no more than that. This was exactly what I was shopping for. I found myself rising off the barstool and gliding toward him. He had himself unzipped by the time I got to him, and he pulled me roughly to him, my legs encasing his. He made quick work of the buttons on my dress shirt with one hand and the zipper on my suit trousers with the other and pulled me down into his lap. He pulled the tail of my shirt out of my trousers but left me in my suit coat and tie. But when he brought me down into his lap, we could not have been more intimately linked, the half naked construction worker and the suited office manager.

He pulled my pelvis right into his and my engorging dick entered the opening of the fly to shorts and both of our penises were there together in the tented area between where his denim and my silk met at the zippers.

He got a beefy hand in there as well and was stroking our cocks together—mine long and slender and his a regular super-sized sausage—while his thick lips went to worrying my nipples. I arched my torso back and gazed around the room, watching others in various forms of fuck, knowing that soon, very soon, that sausage of his was going to fully possess me. I sighed and trembled as he stroked us together and worked his lips and teeth on my nipples.

And then he was pulling my trousers down and off my legs and he had his wide, callused palms on the backs of my thighs, squeezing them and appreciating that I was well worked too. Then he moved his hands to my butt cheeks and was raising them and settling me on his ramrod. I whimpered and protested a bit, not being ready for what he had for me—but containing my reaction, not wanting to scare him off, because this was exactly what I wanted. He wasn't the least bit afraid or reluctant; he just laughed and insisted on having me then and there. I felt the pain of that bulbous mushroom cap at my hole, straining at me, and then a sharp forcing sensation and he was inside me and sliding up and up and up. He was caressing all sides of me inside and stretching me, and my walls were starting to undulate—to work his sausage as they had worked Manuel's. He was grunting his satisfaction.

I could hear myself groaning for him as he plowed up me, and I whispered dirty words in Spanish to him, words I had learned from Manuel, words that aroused him in ways he transmitted down his shaft and into my center. I lifted both legs around the sides of the lounge chair and grabbed his massive pecs with my hands, my thumbs pressing on his erect nipples, struggling to maintain leverage, as he bottomed in me. And, with strong hands on my butt cheeks, he was stroking me up and down on his sausage. Up and down and around and up and down. At first labored. And I was melting, and panting, and groaning, and crying for what he was so deeply and fully doing inside me, my own hard cock rubbing up and down on his heavily muscled, hair-matted belly, preparing to cream for him.

I had found exactly what I had come into this bar looking for and what a peek up those baggy shorts of his had promised me. He lifted my pelvis high off of him, pulling his cock completely out of me and then slammed me down hard while sucking hard on a tit, and I howled to the ceiling and spouted up his belly.

It was like my howl was the bell summoning the others to the main event, because some of the other muscle-bound, hulky construction workers gathered around.

The sausage man hadn't cum yet. And after I did for the that first time, he stood up from the chair and turned me so my knees were in the chair and my arms and neck hanging over the back of the chair and then he slammed hard into me again and began riding me quickly and deeply. He was running his callused hands along the curves of my thighs and yammering something throaty and full of mirth in Spanish to the other construction workers gathered around me.

He pumped me for a few more minutes and then pulled out of me and came around to in front of me and I was being face fucked. Another of the construction workers, with a thinner, but longer cock, mounted me then and came quite quickly, filling me with his cum at the same time that the first one was creaming my throat.

And then I was taken by a succession of beefy construction workers, including both the black guy and the Hispanic youth I had watch earlier, working inside me with increasing ease, helped by a frothy mixture of shared cum. Several of them shed their baggy shorts in my sight before moving behind me and boning me with much excited yammering in Spanish. It wasn't long before I forgot Jake's problem and the UPS guy and Stephanie—and even Manuel, ejaculating again and again, almost as often as I was filled.

For months afterward all I had to do was see a guy in baggy shorts and I'd go straight to hard—and it wasn't long before I found that the UPS guy was versatile enough to do me back in that closet too.