A plumber takes my cherry

I like going to the supermarket, especially the big ASDA superstore nearby, but only because I can size up the ASDA dads. They are of course unerringly straight, although you can but hope, but they make for the best eye candy in town. Typically, the ASDA dads are big men, not just well-nourished, but over-nourished, but that adds to their bear appeal, and travel in family-sized packs with a wife or partner, and assorted children. The women always look hard-bitten, as if used to fighting their way through life, and are probably hellcats in bed, although I don’t swing that way. They seem to come in two main varieties, obese and dyed-blonde, with skins that spend too much time in the sun, or dark, skinny and tattooed, the favourite tattoo being a slag tag at the bottom of their bare spines. You can always tell the posh ones: their tattoos are correctly spelt. The children are usually dressed in ASDA clothes, cheap pink stuff for the girls and cheap blue stuff for the boys, and toddle along with their parents. Even the older teenaged boys do nothing for me, despite being one myself: I only have eyes for their dads.

ASDA dads are big and bald. You do get short ASDA dads, and they often have the most muscular bodies, but the best ASDA dads are above average height and large, somewhere between fifteen and twenty stone, at which point they start to get too obese. Fancy haircuts are not something that they consider. The true ASDA dad is either bald or shaves his hair down to the scalp, which is uncompromisingly practical. You won’t grab an ASDA dad’s hair in a fight. Their sons often sport cropped hair as well, although when they get into their teens they seem to go for gelled monstrosities, another reason why they are unappealing. ASDA dads quite often have a beard, though, always well-managed, but often quite long, another symbol of their alpha masculinity.

ASDA dads shop wearing shorts almost any time of the year. They’ll wear trainers and sports socks in the winter months, together with a hooded sweatshirt, unless they’ve just come off a building site, when they wear work shorts with lots of pockets, and big work boots. This allows them not only to display their beefy, muscled legs, which are always covered with a nice pelt of hair, but also to display any tattoos running up and down the outside of their calves. They also tend just to wear T-shirts when it’s too cold just to wear one outside, so that you can appreciate their beefy, tattooed, hairy forearms and big, practical hands.

Of course, they’re straight and I’m a teenage virgin. How I am going to meet up with one of these bear gods of man sex, I have no idea, but I will carry on coming to ASDA with my parents, who haven’t noticed that I don’t like any of its competitors, and ogle them.

I’d seen the plumber when we were in the supermarket. I didn’t realise then that he was a plumber, but as we went up and down the aisles, I had appreciated his big body. Bald head. Big, thick, red beard. Strong neck. Big shoulders. Deep chest. Meaty firm arse. Beefy legs in work shorts. A tattoo sleeve on one arm and tats on his calves. I went rather dry-mouthed and gooey-eyed when I opened the door and he was standing there.

“Mr. Brown?” he asked, in his deep, booming voice.

“That’s my dad,” I answered. “Yeah, I was expecting you. You’re Mr. Leadbetter?”

“Yeah. The message was that you needed some taps changing, and you’ve bought some?”

I nodded. “Come through.”

Phil Leadbetter filled the kitchen. He put his bag of tools down and looked at the taps, and the replacement.

“Some tea would be nice,” he said.

“Of course.” I sprang into action. “Milk? Sugar?”

“No sugar. Just milk.”

Every time he spoke my cock vibrated. He opened that box containing the new tap, and opened the doors under the sink. I made tea and brought it over. He was taking off his hoody. I couldn’t help gawp at his huge body straining his shirt.

“Thanks,” he said, looking at the mug of tea.

“That’s okay,” I said hoarsely. I couldn’t even breathe with this guy around. He lay on his back and poked his head under the sink, then sat up.

He caught me eying his legs and crotch.

“Fucking hell,” he said, standing up. “You were eyeing me up on Saturday at ASDA and you’re eyeing me up now. “

I spluttered, trying to deny it.

“You’re a dirty little perv,” he said,” and you need sorting out.”

A ham hand pressed on my head, forcing me to my knees. I barely had time to get comfortable when he grabbed my throat, and instinctively I opened my mouth. Big mistake. His cock, which had now grown to its full gnarled and veiny eight inches, foreskin rolled back over his thick helmet, thrust into my mouth. I smelled his thick bushy pubes up close, clean but man-scented, and felt the cock head hit the back of my throat. I started to gag and gasped for air. He withdrew, let me breathe in, and pushed it back in. This time I held it in place, but it was a monstrous, angry piece of meat. His arse pumped like a locomotive. His balls drummed on my chin. He went faster and faster. I felt his urethra thicken as the spunk built up in it, then his hand came firmly down on the back of my head as he came, roaring like a bull, gobbets of hot cum spraying my throat. I had no option but to swallow his jizz, and to lick his splendid cock clean.

“Not bad”, he said in his deep voice. “Not a bad little cocksucker. I haven’t finished with you yet, though. Get your clothes off and lie on your back on that table.”

I didn’t argue. He was the boss. I just hoped he wasn’t going to charge my parents for the time for fucking me, their teenaged son. I was barefoot anyway, so dropped my jeans and underpants, and pulled off my T-shirt. I lay back on the table.

“Legs up,” he ordered, “so your hole’s ready.”

I watched him strip. He was a beast. He took off his safety boots and work socks, planting his big, strong, bare feet on the kitchen floor. He dropped his work shorts: I knew he was wearing nothing underneath, and his cock, which looked about the size of a copper’s truncheon, reared up out of a base of pubes over big, dangling balls. His arse looked big and meaty. He took his T-shirt off. Fuck. He was well-made. Big pecs covered in fur, with big perky nipples, stood out above a flat, washboard tummy also covered in fur. I had died and gone to heaven. He opened a jar of Vaseline and held my legs up by the ankles and began to slather grease all over my hole, pushing his huge fingers inside to open me up. I began to relax. I was in goods hands which knew what they were doing.

He held his cock up and slid it firmly into my hole. This was my first ever fuck and I was expecting it to hurt, but he had done his job well. I gasped as he slid his cock in right up to the hilt, filling my arse, but there was no pain. Hands grabbed my ankles and he began to fuck me. Hard. I looked up at his heroic chest and shoulders and abs. His huge arms and hands held me in place. His mighty arse was pumping away. I was a prisoner of his lust, and I was enjoying it. I felt a build-up of pleasure in my arse as his cock thumped away at my prostrate gland, then a surge, and I shot spunk over my tummy. I had no time to prepare for that first anal orgasm, not like edging yourself when you have a wank. He was smiling. Moments later, there was another bull-like roar, and he plunged himself even further into my hole as he came, slowing down until eventually he stopped, and his cock plopped out of my arse.

I wiped the gunk off my arse and made him a cup of tea. He wiped the gunk off his cock and carried on working, naked. I watched, naked. At the end, he checked everything was working and then dressed. I stayed naked. As he left, he kissed me deep and grabbed by cock and balls.

“I’m taking on an apprentice in the autumn. Let me know if you’re interested.”