Neutered White Fuckpig
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Rehabbing an old house always seems like a great idea when you start. You’re rescuing a piece of history, helping it live into a new era, and keeping resources out of the landfill. When you’re ass deep in the real work, facing the complications of reworking existing materials to make them suit a modern life however, you may find yourself wondering why you didn’t just build something new. Then you remove years of grime or paint from a piece of trim or a door and discover original old-growth tiger oak, and you know you’d never be able to reproduce that kind of treasure on any budget. And if you’re lucky, when working with contractors you find those who share your passion for quality and history.
On this nineteenth-century farm house, surrounded by much younger suburban houses on lots that were once its fields, I was getting some county grant money for preservation, so I was forced to use the lowest bid contractors, and worried that they’d want to do things as quickly and cheaply as possible. Quick and cheap have their place, but not in restoration. I was especially worried about the electrician since there was so much potential damage he could do, and insensitive updates could ruin my best efforts. When Ron first came to the house, it was hard to tell whether he’d be the quick-and-dirty type, or the take-your-time-and-do-it-right type – at least not by outer appearances. He was slim and compact, but the fabric of his t-shirt stretched taut over muscular arms and well developed pecs, and his ass was high, round, and fine. I had trouble maintaining eye contact on our first meeting because the outline of the fat head of his cock in his white work pants showed that he dressed left and that he didn’t wear underwear. He was around 30, had closely cropped blond hair, and his blue eyes twinkled as he spoke. It became apparent that my fears were unfounded, because he immediately saw through the dust and rubble and commented on all the beautiful features of the house – the leaded glass, the rich moldings, the generous proportions, and the quality materials.
He went through the house with an eye for detail and made extensive notes, me explaining my ideas for lighting, sound, data, and all the other wiring, him describing how he would hide updates to maintain the period look. He told me that he too was in the process of rehabbing a house, a rambling Victorian on a side street in the county seat. I was relieved that I could count on his sensitivity to historical preservation to guide his work. I suspected we shared other sensitivities as well, because despite a masculine bearing, he didn’t have the abrupt, crude manner of the other contractors.
As work progressed, my ramblings through the house – looking for misplaced tools, planning projects, or overseeing the trades – often took me across his path. I’d often find something to work on in the same room where he was working, and he seemed to do the same. I’d tease him about not having power. “I’m getting tired of the sound of that generator, Ron. When am I gonna have power again?”He would smile and make eye contact and then blush slightly and look away. “You want it fast or you want it right?” he’d ask. “I want it fast and hard,” I’d think, but I’d just nod and say, “You know how I want it!” He’d just grin.
I noticed that whenever he was working down low– on his belly fishing cable, squatting making connections to boxes, or on his hands and knees looking for a dropped line – he was positively distracted by my presence and didn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes off me. I saw him checking out my strong, 6-foot frame more than once, his gaze always seeming to linger around crotch level. My 7-inch cock and big balls are a point of pride for me, and I work out to keep my muscles toned and my belly flat and hard, so I was enjoyed the attention, taking every opportunity to put my basket smack dab in the center of his field of vision. In turn, I tried not to be too obvious when I drank in the details of his 5’-8” frame: his skin pale, almost pink, covered with faint freckles and coarse, blond hair, and like his body, his face lean and chiseled, only his pink lips displaying any plumpness. Numerous times I found myself standing there, tool in hand, gaping, and to get any work done I had to consciously quell the flights of imagination his body inspired.
He worked calmly and diligently, often humming softly, comfortable with the presence of the “boss” in the vicinity. Over time his eye contact with me became less self-conscious as we discussed details of my house or as he told me about his. I approved of everything he did without reservation: his work was thorough and meticulous, and he always tidied up at the end of his work day. I savored the moments when I’d enter a room to see his sweet ass facing me as he stooped over the dustpan. At night I would replay that vision, in my mind the layer of fabric gone, my hands cupping those firm mounds of his pink flesh, my fingers loosening his tight hole to receive my eager cock, but my own hand jacking my cock was a poor replacement for fucking that sweet ass.
Work on the project was nearing completion, and the last of the other tradesmen had just pulled out of the driveway at the end of the day. I was walking through the house, my heavy boots echoing through the empty rooms, when I happened on just such a scene: that compact ass facing me, his slim, muscular legs bowed slightly as he swept up. Fantasies replayed in my mind, and as I stood there absently staring at his waiting hindquarters, he stood up and turned his head to look me square in the eye. I was startled and embarrassed at being caught gawking, so I reeled off the usual smart-ass remark about wanting power. He just winked, bent back over, and then dropping the broom and dustpan with a crack and a clatter, he grasped his legs behind the knees and gyrated his hips at me.
Desire piqued, I strode across the room and planted my hands on those beautiful round globes, massaging the solid muscles. He gasped in response, and I took this as encouragement, bending my knees, pulling his hips against mine and pressing my hardening cock into the cleft of his ass. He ground himself against me and sighed deeply. I reached around and struggled to undo the button of his pants and unzip his fly. He stood up to give me full access, now pushing his back into my chest. This allowed me to release his pants as my tongue explored his ear. “I’ve been dreaming of this since you first showed up here, you hot fucker!” He groaned again just as my hand found its way inside his pants. No superfluous layer of fabric to impede my progress. My suspicion bore out: the boy was going commando!
I grasped his half-hard cock in my fist and hauled it out of his pants, which without its mass to hold them in place, slipped down past his hips, exposing his bubble butt for me. He arched his back, angling his hole toward my grinding hips and turning his head to take my probing tongue into his mouth. His hands reached around, deftly undid my pants, and hauled out my cock and balls. As my pants fell around my ankles, his hand grasped my shaft and worked the head of my cock against his willing hole, priming it with my plentiful pre-cum. With my right hand I stroked his cock, which had now grown to its full length and girth –a match to my seven inches and so thick my hand couldn’t close around it. With the left hand I worked his stiff right nipple, causing him to squirm and buck.
He turned forward again, releasing my tongue from his mouth, and brought his free left hand to his mouth, wetting his fingers and palm generously, then bringing them back around to lube my rod, then repeating it to lube his chute. Fervently he stroked my now slick cock, then bent forward, angling his ass to receive me. Using the weight of his body, he pushed against the head, which stretched his waiting sphincter and glided in. My cock is fattest in the middle, so I paused about a third of the way in to let him adjust and relax, but he thrust backward, engulfing my member in his hot hole. Once impaled, he did that same hip gyration he’d performed moments ago, causing the sensitive flange of my dickhead to graze the smooth inner walls of his gut. I squeezed my ass, causing my fat cock to swell even bigger, stretching him more tightly still. Moaning in pleasure, he began thrusting forward and back, but my fat cock gripping his insides kept him from riding its full length. He inched forward on the thick stalk, then rewet his hand and lubed the exposed third, and drove himself back down on it. He inched forward again, this time half way out, and lubed more of the exposed cock and drove it in again. This time when he pulled away, my cock came out past the fat middle, stopping just short of the flanged head before he thrust back again, his tailbone colliding with my pubis and our balls slapping together.
I was completely horned up and in danger of coming too quickly with his frantic humping, so I decided to take complete charge of this fuck. I reached around his waist with one arm and pushed him face first to the floor. He put his arms out to break the fall, my weight coming down on top of him, forcing his swollen cock into the floorboards. Using the short hairs at the base of his skull as reins, I controlled my orgasm by riding his willing ass with long, slow strokes, pausing when my cock bottomed out in his gut to savor the sensation and pant in his ear, “You like that big cock, Ron?” He groaned in response and thrust back against me. “Let me do the driving, Ron,” I hissed. He moaned again, arching his back and turning his head to receive my tongue in his mouth. This hot little fuck liked being driven, and his engine was purring. I stayed in low gear, pumping my piston deep inside him, then pulling back until his tight ring of muscle was straining to keep from losing its grip on the probe it so needed. Enjoying the sensation of his scorching hot flesh as it slid over my live nerve endings, I slid my prong back into his waiting void to bottom out again with a grunt. I kept up the slow, steady thrusts, not wanting the feeling to end
He began to whimper in pleasure, then begged me, “Faster! Fuck me deep, baby!” I sped up my thrusts, the friction increasing the heat in my loins. To distract myself, I lifted his hips enough to get my hand between him and the floor so I could grip his rock-hard cock. I began jacking it, and within moments I knew he was ready to pop. He ground back against me, and unable to control the need to shoot my load inside him, I doubled the speed of my thrusts. His whimpers turned to gasps, grunts, and howls, and he resumed thrusting, driving his cock into my hand until I felt his first spasm – both in my hand and in the muscles around my thrusting cock. Again and again, his thick, hot sperm shot into my hand, and the spasms in his loins against my shaft set me off, the first load churning up from my tensing balls to explode into his fuck tunnel. I growled and groaned in pleasure as wave after wave of orgasm overcame me.
Spent, I collapsed on his back, the matched rhythm of our panting slowing gradually. I stayed inside him, unwilling to let go of the pleasure of his body around my cock. Now relaxed, he lay his head on his crossed arms. “You may not have electricity,” he sighed, “but MAN, do you have power! You know, I could have finished up here days ago, but I’ve been waiting for you to make the first move.” I just smiled, but you can believe I had power the next day, and Ron’s visits at my house didn’t end with his electrical work.
On this nineteenth-century farm house, surrounded by much younger suburban houses on lots that were once its fields, I was getting some county grant money for preservation, so I was forced to use the lowest bid contractors, and worried that they’d want to do things as quickly and cheaply as possible. Quick and cheap have their place, but not in restoration. I was especially worried about the electrician since there was so much potential damage he could do, and insensitive updates could ruin my best efforts. When Ron first came to the house, it was hard to tell whether he’d be the quick-and-dirty type, or the take-your-time-and-do-it-right type – at least not by outer appearances. He was slim and compact, but the fabric of his t-shirt stretched taut over muscular arms and well developed pecs, and his ass was high, round, and fine. I had trouble maintaining eye contact on our first meeting because the outline of the fat head of his cock in his white work pants showed that he dressed left and that he didn’t wear underwear. He was around 30, had closely cropped blond hair, and his blue eyes twinkled as he spoke. It became apparent that my fears were unfounded, because he immediately saw through the dust and rubble and commented on all the beautiful features of the house – the leaded glass, the rich moldings, the generous proportions, and the quality materials.
He went through the house with an eye for detail and made extensive notes, me explaining my ideas for lighting, sound, data, and all the other wiring, him describing how he would hide updates to maintain the period look. He told me that he too was in the process of rehabbing a house, a rambling Victorian on a side street in the county seat. I was relieved that I could count on his sensitivity to historical preservation to guide his work. I suspected we shared other sensitivities as well, because despite a masculine bearing, he didn’t have the abrupt, crude manner of the other contractors.
As work progressed, my ramblings through the house – looking for misplaced tools, planning projects, or overseeing the trades – often took me across his path. I’d often find something to work on in the same room where he was working, and he seemed to do the same. I’d tease him about not having power. “I’m getting tired of the sound of that generator, Ron. When am I gonna have power again?”He would smile and make eye contact and then blush slightly and look away. “You want it fast or you want it right?” he’d ask. “I want it fast and hard,” I’d think, but I’d just nod and say, “You know how I want it!” He’d just grin.
I noticed that whenever he was working down low– on his belly fishing cable, squatting making connections to boxes, or on his hands and knees looking for a dropped line – he was positively distracted by my presence and didn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes off me. I saw him checking out my strong, 6-foot frame more than once, his gaze always seeming to linger around crotch level. My 7-inch cock and big balls are a point of pride for me, and I work out to keep my muscles toned and my belly flat and hard, so I was enjoyed the attention, taking every opportunity to put my basket smack dab in the center of his field of vision. In turn, I tried not to be too obvious when I drank in the details of his 5’-8” frame: his skin pale, almost pink, covered with faint freckles and coarse, blond hair, and like his body, his face lean and chiseled, only his pink lips displaying any plumpness. Numerous times I found myself standing there, tool in hand, gaping, and to get any work done I had to consciously quell the flights of imagination his body inspired.
He worked calmly and diligently, often humming softly, comfortable with the presence of the “boss” in the vicinity. Over time his eye contact with me became less self-conscious as we discussed details of my house or as he told me about his. I approved of everything he did without reservation: his work was thorough and meticulous, and he always tidied up at the end of his work day. I savored the moments when I’d enter a room to see his sweet ass facing me as he stooped over the dustpan. At night I would replay that vision, in my mind the layer of fabric gone, my hands cupping those firm mounds of his pink flesh, my fingers loosening his tight hole to receive my eager cock, but my own hand jacking my cock was a poor replacement for fucking that sweet ass.
Work on the project was nearing completion, and the last of the other tradesmen had just pulled out of the driveway at the end of the day. I was walking through the house, my heavy boots echoing through the empty rooms, when I happened on just such a scene: that compact ass facing me, his slim, muscular legs bowed slightly as he swept up. Fantasies replayed in my mind, and as I stood there absently staring at his waiting hindquarters, he stood up and turned his head to look me square in the eye. I was startled and embarrassed at being caught gawking, so I reeled off the usual smart-ass remark about wanting power. He just winked, bent back over, and then dropping the broom and dustpan with a crack and a clatter, he grasped his legs behind the knees and gyrated his hips at me.
Desire piqued, I strode across the room and planted my hands on those beautiful round globes, massaging the solid muscles. He gasped in response, and I took this as encouragement, bending my knees, pulling his hips against mine and pressing my hardening cock into the cleft of his ass. He ground himself against me and sighed deeply. I reached around and struggled to undo the button of his pants and unzip his fly. He stood up to give me full access, now pushing his back into my chest. This allowed me to release his pants as my tongue explored his ear. “I’ve been dreaming of this since you first showed up here, you hot fucker!” He groaned again just as my hand found its way inside his pants. No superfluous layer of fabric to impede my progress. My suspicion bore out: the boy was going commando!
I grasped his half-hard cock in my fist and hauled it out of his pants, which without its mass to hold them in place, slipped down past his hips, exposing his bubble butt for me. He arched his back, angling his hole toward my grinding hips and turning his head to take my probing tongue into his mouth. His hands reached around, deftly undid my pants, and hauled out my cock and balls. As my pants fell around my ankles, his hand grasped my shaft and worked the head of my cock against his willing hole, priming it with my plentiful pre-cum. With my right hand I stroked his cock, which had now grown to its full length and girth –a match to my seven inches and so thick my hand couldn’t close around it. With the left hand I worked his stiff right nipple, causing him to squirm and buck.
He turned forward again, releasing my tongue from his mouth, and brought his free left hand to his mouth, wetting his fingers and palm generously, then bringing them back around to lube my rod, then repeating it to lube his chute. Fervently he stroked my now slick cock, then bent forward, angling his ass to receive me. Using the weight of his body, he pushed against the head, which stretched his waiting sphincter and glided in. My cock is fattest in the middle, so I paused about a third of the way in to let him adjust and relax, but he thrust backward, engulfing my member in his hot hole. Once impaled, he did that same hip gyration he’d performed moments ago, causing the sensitive flange of my dickhead to graze the smooth inner walls of his gut. I squeezed my ass, causing my fat cock to swell even bigger, stretching him more tightly still. Moaning in pleasure, he began thrusting forward and back, but my fat cock gripping his insides kept him from riding its full length. He inched forward on the thick stalk, then rewet his hand and lubed the exposed third, and drove himself back down on it. He inched forward again, this time half way out, and lubed more of the exposed cock and drove it in again. This time when he pulled away, my cock came out past the fat middle, stopping just short of the flanged head before he thrust back again, his tailbone colliding with my pubis and our balls slapping together.
I was completely horned up and in danger of coming too quickly with his frantic humping, so I decided to take complete charge of this fuck. I reached around his waist with one arm and pushed him face first to the floor. He put his arms out to break the fall, my weight coming down on top of him, forcing his swollen cock into the floorboards. Using the short hairs at the base of his skull as reins, I controlled my orgasm by riding his willing ass with long, slow strokes, pausing when my cock bottomed out in his gut to savor the sensation and pant in his ear, “You like that big cock, Ron?” He groaned in response and thrust back against me. “Let me do the driving, Ron,” I hissed. He moaned again, arching his back and turning his head to receive my tongue in his mouth. This hot little fuck liked being driven, and his engine was purring. I stayed in low gear, pumping my piston deep inside him, then pulling back until his tight ring of muscle was straining to keep from losing its grip on the probe it so needed. Enjoying the sensation of his scorching hot flesh as it slid over my live nerve endings, I slid my prong back into his waiting void to bottom out again with a grunt. I kept up the slow, steady thrusts, not wanting the feeling to end
He began to whimper in pleasure, then begged me, “Faster! Fuck me deep, baby!” I sped up my thrusts, the friction increasing the heat in my loins. To distract myself, I lifted his hips enough to get my hand between him and the floor so I could grip his rock-hard cock. I began jacking it, and within moments I knew he was ready to pop. He ground back against me, and unable to control the need to shoot my load inside him, I doubled the speed of my thrusts. His whimpers turned to gasps, grunts, and howls, and he resumed thrusting, driving his cock into my hand until I felt his first spasm – both in my hand and in the muscles around my thrusting cock. Again and again, his thick, hot sperm shot into my hand, and the spasms in his loins against my shaft set me off, the first load churning up from my tensing balls to explode into his fuck tunnel. I growled and groaned in pleasure as wave after wave of orgasm overcame me.
Spent, I collapsed on his back, the matched rhythm of our panting slowing gradually. I stayed inside him, unwilling to let go of the pleasure of his body around my cock. Now relaxed, he lay his head on his crossed arms. “You may not have electricity,” he sighed, “but MAN, do you have power! You know, I could have finished up here days ago, but I’ve been waiting for you to make the first move.” I just smiled, but you can believe I had power the next day, and Ron’s visits at my house didn’t end with his electrical work.
Rowan
- 09.05.2020
- 9
- 0
