The key scraped in the old lock, and Evan shoved the heavy door open with practiced ease. At forty-three, he carried the weight and presence of a seasoned site boss—broad, weathered, and unapologetically rugged. Years of leading crews under blistering sun and biting cold had carved hard muscle and quiet authority into his frame. His boots thudded softly on the hardwood as the door swung shut, muffling the city’s hum.
Exposed brick walls glowed amber in the fading light. The loft was spare: a worn leather couch, a metal rack of work clothes, a tall mirror leaning against the far wall. His sanctuary.
Evan pulled off his sweat-soaked ball cap, raking calloused fingers through damp hair. In the mirror’s fleeting glance, he saw broad shoulders and arms corded with muscle from years of hauling lumber and hammering nails. His white t-shirt, streaked with dust, clung to his chest. Canvas work pants, molded to thick thighs and the curve of his ass, bore the day’s grind.
He chuckled softly. On the site, he was just another guy in boots, tossing timber and cursing bent nails. The crew saw him as one of them.
They’d lose their minds if they knew, he thought, a spark of defiance in his gut. This is my secret, and it’s mine alone.
Kicking off his boots, Evan stretched, catching his full reflection. Beside the mirror waited his ritual: a pump bottle of silicone lube, a folded towel, a fresh bottle of poppers glinting in the dim light, and a discreet jar of thick, slick lube for nights like this.
His fingers found the button of his pants. Slowly, he eased them down.
The mirror unveiled his secret.
Crimson lace briefs, sheer and floral-patterned, hugged the hard swell of his ass and thick thighs. Coarse dark hair dusted his chest and trailed down in a faint line over firm abs to where the lace waistband rested snugly on his hips. His pubes were trimmed short, a sharp contrast to the natural body hair above, and his balls were shaved smooth, the clean skin pressing against the soft mesh in a mix of rough and silky textures. The contoured pouch cupped the thick, veined shaft of his cock, barely containing the heavy length that strained wantonly against the delicate mesh. The head pressed obscenely against the sheer fabric, darkened by moisture, a bold, filthy outline that made his pulse quicken. Crafted for a man’s body, their sculpted front lifted and cradled him perfectly.
A memory surged, sharp and raw. Sixteen, awkward, staring at men’s bikinis and briefs under harsh fluorescent lights in a department store. Palms slick, heart racing, terrified someone might see. An older saleswoman, maybe a bit younger than his grandmother, with short gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, appeared beside him with a warm but professional smile. “Can I help you find anything, dear?” she asked kindly, her eyes flicking briefly to the small rack of daring men’s briefs. The simple question hit him like a hammer; his breath caught, panic flaring in his chest. He shook his head, mumbling, "Just looking," and the woman, sensing his unease, nodded gently and walked away without pressing further.
Evan smiled wryly in the present. That kid was terrified. He’d never believe this is me now.
On the dresser: a parcel with tonight’s addition—midnight blue microfiber briefs, soft yet strong, with a bold, sculpted front designed to cradle and display. His cock stirred, the crimson lace already taut against his growing length.
“You belong to me now,” he murmured.
The mirror caught every detail: the obscene bulge straining against wet lace, the floral pattern clinging to sweat-slick skin. His hand drifted down, rough, work-hardened fingers squeezing the fragile fabric. Sharp texture teased his sensitive head, sending jagged pleasure up his spine.
A deep inhale of poppers seared heat through him, senses spinning.
This is my world. No shame. A rough man in filthy lace.
Eyes locked on his reflection, he stroked himself slowly. The roughness of the lace scraped over his leaking slit, sending a sharp jolt of raw pleasure spiraling through his core. He growled low in his throat as his palm flattened and ground the damp mesh against the sensitive ridge of his cock head. Each obscene drag of the fabric tormented him mercilessly.
Evan shifted his stance, spreading his legs wider as his free hand cupped his heavy, shaved balls, rolling them firmly in his calloused grip. The slick stickiness of precum smeared along the inside of the lace, staining the floral pattern as the pouch strained to contain him with every slow pump.
The smell of sex and sweat saturated the air, thick and intoxicating, clinging to his skin and filling his lungs with every desperate breath. His breathing quickened to ragged gasps as he pressed harder, twisting the lace around his thick shaft, feeling the fabric bite into the swollen veins. The mixture of pain and exquisite pleasure made his knees threaten to buckle. The untouched blue briefs dangled in his other hand.
“I’ll ruin you next,” he growled, eyes narrowing as he flexed his fingers around the heavy pouch of his cock, teasing the untouched blue briefs with filthy anticipation.
The musky scent of sweat and precum thickened the air. Fingers curled tighter, grinding the lace against his aching cock. The rough fabric scraped tender skin as pain and pleasure blurred deliciously.
Hold on. Make it last.
His strokes quickened, desperate. The lace stretched, obscene, around his pulsing shaft. Rugged frame trembling, crimson pouch darkened with arousal.
A guttural groan tore loose as his knees buckled. The lace bunched under his grip as he yanked the fabric roughly along the thick length, milking his shaft with urgent, messy pumps. Twisting the lace around his cock head, hips jerked violently. Sweat dripped, the squelch of slick fabric deafening.
The scent, the rawness, pushed him over. “Fuck, yes—” he gasped.
Thick jets erupted into the lace. Molten streams soaked through, dripping shamelessly down his thighs. Muscles clenched, his release painting the soaked fabric and skin alike. Weaker spurts followed, leaving the lace sagging heavily.
Breath ragged, body limp, Evan stood in the aftermath. He pressed the sodden pouch against himself, feeling the warm weight.
“Oh, fuck...” A tired grin broke through. Worth every second.
The haze slowly cleared. Evan peeled the ruined lace down, strands of cum stretching between mesh and skin. He held it to his face, inhaling deeply. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the sodden briefs onto a small pile near the mirror—several old, crusty, cum-soaked pairs discarded from previous nights of indulgence. Salt and sex, filthy and perfect.
No one’s taking this from me. he vowed, fierce and sure.
He wiped his thighs and belly clean with the towel. The midnight blue briefs slid up his legs slowly, silky and decadent against the coarse hair and thick muscle of his thighs, teasing his tender, spent skin with every soft, deliberate tug. The cool fabric whispered against his calves, then his thick thighs, gliding upward over the curve of his ass and snugly encasing him. He adjusted the sculpted front over his cock, now resting heavy and satisfied, relishing the soft embrace that contrasted sharply with the rough lace he’d just discarded.
In the mirror, Evan stood tall and proud. “Fits like a glove.”
The city hummed outside. Tomorrow, another day, another pair, another ritual. His lips curled into a private, satisfied smirk.
Always mine.
