Public Servant: Jackhammered by Henri D'Amore

A literotic sexstories: Public Servant: Jackhammered by Henri D'Amore ,
It was summer and that meant that school was out and I needed a job to pay for the next bout of tuition in the fall. An advisor recommended that I work in construction as those sorts of gigs tended to pick up in the summer and would help me get a different perspective on major. I thought why not? I sure would love to build some muscle and return fall semester looking a bit less twinkish. I started work with a road construction crew led by a Mr. Svendsen. Mr. Svendsen was a big Viking of a man with a strong, grizzled jaw and broad barrel chest. He was rather old-fashioned and insisted that everyone one refer to him as “sir” at all times.

Many of the workers, who were all tanned and muscular from working in the summer sun, were attractive, but Mr. Svendsen was the most striking of all. I often caught myself staring at his biceps or massive bulge as he worked. I couldn’t help it. I imagined what it would feel like to have him hold me in those big arms. To have him pin me up against one of the machines and have his way. I wanted it so bad.

One day, while the other workers were on lunch break, Mr. Svendsen called me over behind one of the trucks. Being a man of few words, he took one look at me, spat, looked me straight in the eye and asked: “You a faggot, son?”

I, a bit taken aback, couldn’t think straight. “W-what?” I stammered.

“I said,” he replied, raising his voice so that I was sure the other workers could hear him, “Are. You. A. Faggot.”

“Look,” I manage to respond, “you can’t just—”

“Son!” he bellowed, “you will call me sir!” he threw down a hammer he had been hauling and it landed with a mighty crash.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Good, now tell me: you like the dick? I seen you looking at us while work—I’ve caught you gaping at my crotch seventeen times over the last three days. You want it or not?”

So he had seen me staring. It’s just that—I couldn’t help it, I just couldn’t—

“Boy,” he screamed, “yes or no?”

“I—I mean,” I guess honesty is the best answer, “yes. Yes, sir I do want it.”

He smirked and leaned in real close to my face so that his stubble tickled my cheek. He cupped his hand under my chin so that his thumb pressed against my lips. He smelled like sweat and dirt. “Prove it then.” He whispered. “I’ve been looking for a cute little twink pussyboy like you and I know you want it. So be a good boy and I won’t use anything bigger than this jackhammer here.” He motioned to a jackhammer on the truck—I hoped he was joking. “Hell, if you’re good enough I might even share you with our friends over there.” This time he gestured to where the others were quietly eating lunch. I guess if they were okay with this happening on their lunch break, well, I hadn’t gotten laid in a while… “On your knees, pussyboy!” he placed his gloved hands on my thin shoulders and pushed. My knees buckled and suddenly I was face to face with his massive bulge.

He began to fiddle with his belt, undo his zipper and suddenly emerged the biggest soft cock I had ever seen. There it was in all its sweaty, red glory exposed to the hot, dusty daylight. I felt a trickle of precum drip down my leg. God, I wanted it bad. I reached out my hand, but he swatted it away with his knuckles.

“No.” he said gruffly, placing the palm of his hand on my cheek. “You do as I say.”

“Er… ok.” I said. Withdrawing my hand.

“You will call me sir when you speak to me.”

“Yes… sir.” I sat patiently, looking up into his steely gray eyes, waiting for an order.

“Take off your clothes.” He growled.

“All—all of them, sir?”

“Take off your clothes.”

My hands trembled slightly as I removed my helmet and vest under his steady gaze.

“Yes,” he said, sliding his fingers around his shaft, “keep going.”

As I slipped off my shirt I heard him give an audible sigh and noticed his penis had began to grow hard. My own member was throbbing in anticipation, but I had trouble working my pants off while in a kneeling position until Mr. Svendsen, obviously growing impatient, reached down and simply ripped them off of me—underwear and all. My pants were ruined, but at last my penis was free. I reached down to stroke it, but, again, Mr. Svendsen swatted my hand away.

“Do not touch yourself.” He barked. “Look me in the eye and beg me to put my cock in your mouth.”

“Please, sir,” I said, “put your cock in my mouth.”

He grinned and pulled my head closer to his tip, but did not let it pierce my lips. Instead he slapped it against my cheek and rubbed it around my face, coating it in the precum that flowed from the tip. There was so much and it threatened to drip onto my eye, but I didn’t blink for fear of breaking eye contact with the intimidating Scandinavian.

“Tell me how much you want this.” He said.

“I want it, sir.” I squeaked. “I want it so bad—more than anything.” That was an understatement—he was toying with me and I wasn’t sure how long I could take it. My whole body ached for the moment he would enter my body.

Finally, he parted my lips with his gloved thumb, forcing the dry, cracked fabric into my begging mouth.

He smirked, a chilling smile. “I don’t think your mouth is big enough for my cock,” he said. “We’ll have to have force it open.” And with that he inserted his forefinger and with that on my top teeth; his thumb on the bottom, he forced my jaw open all the way.

With his other hand he guided the head of his dick into my mouth, forcing it deeper and deeper into the back of my throat. It was salty and quite musky and I loved every inch of it. I swirled my tongue around the bottom of the shaft and was reworded with a barely-suppressed groan from the stoic man.

Now he held both hands tightly against the back of my head, keeping my nose buried in his pubic hair. I could barely breathe and was struggling the urge to gag, but he held it there for a full minute before releasing. I could tell my face was turning red, and my eyes were beginning to tear up, but he only gave me half a second to breathe before plunging his colossal member back down my throat. This time he used his hips to thrust it in and out of my face. Soon, I began to feel overwhelmed by the amount of cock and had to grab a handful of his ass to steady myself. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to mind.

Eventually, he stopped, once again forcing his shaft as far down my throat as it would go. He moaned and I could feel his cum shooting down my gullet.

“Eat it!” I heard him say “Eat my come you fucking faggot.” It’s not like I had much choice, but I happily gulped it down and, when he released me, lay back in the dust, panting.

“Yeah, you like that, pussyboy.” He said simply. “But you want more. You want it all.” He toed my still erect penis with his boot. It was taking all my willpower not to reach down and stroke it, give a sweat release, but I didn’t—I did what I was told.

Mr. Svendsen used his boots to role me onto my stomach so that my ass was facing the sky. He pried apart my butt cheeks and whistled. “Look at that pussy,” he said. “That pussy needs some action. That pussy needs a real man to tear it apart. You ever had a real man, girly?”

At this point I was face first in the dirt so all I could do was let out a few mumbles.

He slapped my ass. It stung and the pain mixed with the pleasure was one of the strangest, yet best feelings I had ever felt. “Speak!” he ordered.

I raised my head off the ground a little. “No, sir.”

He chuckled. “Well then you’re going to get a little more than you bargained for today. He picked me up with one hand and slung me over his shoulder. From under his armpit I could see where he was carrying me and was surprised to find it was not towards the break area, but to the road we were working on—a busy highway that was currently packed with traffic now that four lanes had been reduced to two.

“Sit.” He ordered, setting me down on a piece of heavy machinery in full view of the highway. I sat and he hurried away, warning that he would be back in a second. I wondered if I could touch my cock yet.

When we reached the temporary cement barrier that separated our work space from the highway, he bent down and laid me across it so that I was facing into traffic. At this point the cars that drifted by were mere feet from where Mr. Svendsen was binding me in place with a length of cord.

“This is so you won’t be able to escape,” He explained. “Not that you would want to,” he added, patting my ass. “I know you will enjoy this.” He also tied my legs so that they were spread wide “for easy access” and my hands behind my back, presumably so I couldn’t get myself off and finish the job.

Then he directed me to observe the people passing in the cars. “Look at them,” he said. “Watch their faces—they can’t keep their eyes off you—and their expressions. Each one of these people is a witness to how much of a faggot you really are. And each one of them is going to enjoy it. Furthermore, not one of them is going to help you, you know why? Because each one of them knows how much you like this—even if you don’t admit it.”

“I do like it, sir,” I insisted. “More than anything—just, please, won’t you let me cum, sir? My penis—I don’t know if I can take much more.”

He laughed and smacked my ass. “Oh you’ll cum all right, just at the right moment.”

With that he spread apart my butt cheeks again and spat directly into my asshole. A thin trail dripped down my left leg. He then shoved a gloved finger into my asshole. “Damn, you’re tight,” He said. “Too much so—we’re going to have to work on that.”

He removed his finger and after a moment something else penetrated my hole—something wet and squishy—his tongue. I gasped as he worked his way around the opening, his stubble brushing against my cheeks.

“You don’t need much down time,” he observed. “This is perfect.”

And with that they all lined up behind me, ready to penetrate and tame my ass. I lost track of how many times I came and how many men came inside me. Some, growing impatient, even hopped the fence and took me from the front. At any moment I had a cock in my mouth and up to two in my ass and I loved every second of it. I loved how they abused me, how they hit me, pinched my nipples, called me names. I loved it even more when the occasional passerby would join in the fun—if just to roll down their windows to call me a faggot or to stop their car completely to hop in line.

When everyone had finished, Mr. Svendsen took a knife and cut me free. I lay on the ground dizzy with ecstasy, but the Scandinavian tossed me a vest and hard hat and growled, “lunch break is over—get back to work.

We never really got much done as far as the roadwork we were supposed to be doing, but from that point on, I knew that was the best summer I would ever have.