I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my gloved hand, staring out over the job site as the crew wrapped up for the day. Mid-forties, still built like the iron I welded, broad shoulders, thick arms from years of hauling beams, and a face that looked like it had taken a few punches from life but still turned heads. I’m Pierce Longwoode, owner of Ramrod Builders. Yeah, the name always got a smirk, but it fit. We drove hard, built straight and true, and got the job done right.
Two years since I caught my long-term boyfriend with his pants around his ankles and some twink from the gym stuck on his dick. After I threw all his shit out on the front yard not caring about the snow storm that was happening, I threw my life into the business. Success felt good, but it left zero room for anything real. My nights were just me, a cold beer, and my collection of dildos that got bigger the lonelier I got.
Then my best carpenter retired. I needed someone reliable fast. That’s when Lachlan “Lach” Murdoch showed up. Six-foot-four of pure Australian beef. The man was a goddamn tank: massive chest straining against his hi-vis shirt, arms like tree trunks covered in sun-tanned muscle, thick thighs that flexed every time he hauled a sheet of plywood, and a bulging crotch that made it impossible not to notice the heavy outline of what he was packing. His thick Aussie accent was so strong I could barely understand half of what he said, but his work was flawless. Frames went up perfectly, joints tight as a drum. The crew respected him. I… I… was trying really hard not to think about him after hours.
A few weeks in, the tension had built up like pressure in a line. We were the last two on site, finishing up some trim on a big residential build. The sun was setting, painting everything orange. Lach was loading tools into the back of my pickup, his shirt soaked through and clinging to every ridge of muscle. I couldn’t take it anymore. Two years without a real cock up my ass. Just silicone and my own hand. I needed it.
I walked over, heart hammering harder than any jackhammer. Without a word, I bent over the tailgate of the pickup, forearms resting on the warm metal, my work jeans shoved down just enough. My ass was exposed to the cooling evening air.
Lach froze for a second, then that deep, gravelly voice rumbled out. “Farkin’ hell, mate… ya serious?”
I nodded, gripping the edge of the truck bed. “Just fuck me, Lach and shut the fuck up. Been needing it.”
He didn’t need more invitation. I heard his belt clink, the heavy thud of his boots as he stepped up behind me. His big, calloused hands gripped my hips strong. His hands rough, possessive. Then I felt it: the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against my hole. He was huge, just like the bulge had promised. I pushed back, groaning as he sank in.
“Christ, yer tight as a bloody virgin, ya are,” he growled in that thick accent, voice low and rough. “Gonna fark ya proper, mate. Take this fat Aussie cock up yer guts.”
He thrust forward hard, burying half his length in one go. I gasped, the burn mixing with that deep, aching pleasure I’d missed so bad. He was thick, really thick, stretching me open wider than any of my toys ever could.
“Fuck yeah… look at that greedy hole swallowin’ me,” Lach grunted, starting to pump deeper, his heavy balls slapping against me. “Been watchin’ ya strut around the site, tight arse in them jeans. Knew ya needed a real rootin’. Gonna pound ya till ya can’t walk straight tomorrow, ya dirty bastard.”
His hips slammed forward, driving every inch home. The truck rocked under us. I could barely understand half the filth he was growling, something about “rootin’ me like a man in heat,” “fillin’ me up with his thick spunk,” and how my arse was “grippin’ him like a bloody fist.” It didn’t matter. The sound of his deep voice, the raw power in every thrust, the way his muscular body pressed against my back as he railed me… it was everything.
He reached around, his big hand wrapping around my leaking cock, stroking me rough in time with his pounding. “Yer drippin’ everywhere, mate. Love gettin’ fucked, don’t ya? Take it harder… yeah, that’s it. Gonna blow me load deep in ya.”
I came first, shooting across the tailgate with a shout, my hole clenching around him. Lach roared something I couldn’t even parse, sounded like “Farkin’ hell, ya milkin’ me!” And slammed in to the hilt. I felt him pulse, flooding me with hot, heavy spurts.
We stayed locked like that for a minute, breathing hard, his massive frame draped over mine. Then he pulled out slowly, patted my ass with that same rough hand, and muttered something that sounded a lot like “Good on ya, boss.”
I pulled my jeans up, legs shaky, already knowing this was going to be a regular thing on the job site.
Ramrod Builders had never felt more appropriate.
I grew up scrawny as hell with a name that sounded like it belonged to some fancy English lord, Pierce Longwoode. Kids at school had a field day with it. “Longwood? More like No Wood!” they’d laugh, shoving me into lockers, stealing my lunch, and making my life hell. I was the weak, quiet kid who kept his head down and took it.
After I turned eighteen, things got darker. The bullying didn’t stop; it just changed. Some of the same assholes, now older and meaner, cornered me more than once. I got roughed up, fucked, sometimes both in the same night. They’d call me names while they used me, laughing about how I secretly wanted it. Part of me hated it. Another part, deep down, started craving the raw power, the feeling of being overpowered and filled. It messed me up, but it also lit a fire.
So I changed. I hit the gym like a man possessed. Construction work helped too what with long hours hauling materials, swinging hammers, building muscle the hard way. By the time I was twenty-three I wasn’t that scrawny kid anymore. I was thick, broad-shouldered, and strong, with a rough, masculine look that hid everything I’d been through. At twenty-five I started Ramrod Builders with every dollar I had and sheer stubbornness. The company grew fast. I kept my private life locked away tight. The crew saw a hard-working, straight-passing boss who didn’t take shit. Nobody knew I was gay. Nobody needed to.
Until they found out.
One of the guys saw something he shouldn’t have on my phone during a lunch break. A text from my ex-boyfriend saying how he wants my ass again. Word spread like wildfire. By the end of the week, most of the crew quit to my face. “We ain’t workin’ for a fag,” they sneered as they walked off the job. The business took a hit, but I kept swinging. The only one who stayed was Lachlan Murdoch, my big, muscle-bound Australian carpenter with the thick accent and the even thicker cock. He just shrugged those massive shoulders and kept working like nothing had changed.
A couple days after the walkout, Lach pulled me aside on site, his big hand squeezing my shoulder. “Don’t worry, boss. I got ya covered, mate.”
That afternoon his ute rolled up, and out climbed three more Aussies, all built like they lived in the gym and on job sites. Lach introduced them with a grin.
First was Brody “Brodes” Callahan, six-three, shaved head, thick neck and traps that made his hi-vis shirt look painted on. His chest was a solid slab of muscle, arms veined and huge, and the bulge in his work pants was obscene, heavy and low-hanging like he was smuggling a beer can.
Next came Kane “Kano” Fletcher, a bit leaner but still jacked, with a dirty blond beard and mischievous eyes. His biceps popped every time he moved, and that fat crotch bulge strained against the fabric, shifting heavily as he walked.
Last was Travis “Taz” Malone, the biggest of the three. An absolute unit with a barrel chest, tree-trunk thighs, and a gut that was pure power, not fat. His package was ridiculous, a thick, meaty mound that made my mouth water instantly.
They all had that same thick, rolling Aussie accent that turned half their words into gravelly growls I could barely decipher.
Lach clapped me on the back and addressed the three of them in his deep voice. “Don’t fret, mates. Longwoode here’s a right poofter. But he’s a good bloke, pays well, and knows how to take a proper rootin’. Reckon we can keep this job runnin’ smooth, yeah? Boss needs good men… and a bit of relief after the wankers bailed on him.”
Brody chuckled, adjusting his bulging crotch openly. “Fair dinkum? Reckon I can help with that, boss. Looks like ya been needin’ some real men around.”
Kane smirked. “Too right. We’ll frame up the houses and frame up that tight arse of yours, mate.”
Taz just grinned wide, his massive bulge twitching visibly. “Long as the pay’s good and I get to empty these heavy nuts, I’m in.”
I stood there, heart pounding, already salivating over the four massive, hard-working Aussies who’d just walked into my life. The crew might have quit, but Lach had brought in reinforcements. Strong, skilled, and packing exactly what I needed. For the first time since the walkout and all the other shit in my life, Ramrod Builders felt solid again. And I knew the “overtime” was going to be fucking intense.
The four big Australian bruisers turned out to be a hell of a lot more open-minded than my old crew. They didn’t mind giving it as much as they loved dishing it out. Turned out they were all happy to take cock too, especially after a long week on site. And all this talk about someone named “Sheila.”
They’d all laugh whenever I asked, “Who the fuck is Sheila?”
Friday nights became our ritual. After the crew knocked off, I’d grab a slab of cold tinnies, usually VB or XXXX. I had to drive all the way to Wegman’s but it was a tasty beer. We’d park our arses behind whatever job site we were on. Tools down, shirts off, the five of us kicking back against the tailgates or stacks of lumber, cracking open beers under the fading light.
It never took long for things to heat up.
Lach was usually the one who started it, that deep gravelly voice cutting through the laughter. “C’mon ya cunts, boss looks like he needs his knob polished.”
Brody grinned, already palming that fat bulge in his work pants. “Too right. Reckon I’ll have a go at Longwoode’s fat cock first. Been thinkin’ about it all week.”
I’d lean back against my pickup, jeans open, and Brody would drop to his knees in the dirt, his massive shoulders flexing as he swallowed me down. “Fark yeah… thick yank meat,” he mumbled around my shaft, sucking hard and sloppy, spit running down his chin while Kane and Taz watched, stroking their own heavy cocks.
Kane didn’t wait long. He’d grab Lach by the back of the neck and feed him that long, thick Aussie dick. “Suck it down, ya dirty bastard. Get it nice and wet.” Lach took it like a champ, gagging and groaning, his own massive meat leaking all over his abs.
Taz, the biggest of them, loved getting his hole played with while he sucked. He’d bend over the tailgate next to me, shorts around his thick thighs, while one of the others buried their face between those meaty cheeks. “Eat me out, ya mongrel… get that tongue in deep,” he’d growl. Then he’d turn and start sucking whoever was closest, loud and hungry, slurping and moaning around fat cock.
The air filled with the wet sounds of mouths working and thick Aussie filth:
“Fark, yer cock’s throbbin’, mate. Gonna feed ya me load.”
“Swallow it all, ya good little cock sucker.”
“Gonna blow me spunk down yer throat, hold still ya cunt.”
I still couldn’t understand half of what they were saying, especially when they got really worked up. They kept calling me “Sheila” like it was the funniest thing in the world. Teasing me in their thick accents while they took turns sucking me off or feeding me their cocks.
“Open up, Sheila. Take me fat prick.”
“C’mon boss, be a good sheila and milk me dry.”
I didn’t care what it meant. I was too busy getting my dick sucked by one while another pushed his throbbing cock past my lips. The five of us rotated, sucking, stroking, swallowing. Big muscular bodies pressed together, sweat and beer mixing, hands everywhere.
By the end of the night we were all drained. Five heavy sets of balls emptied of loads swallowed, loads shot across chests and abs, loads pumped down throats until we were spent and sticky. Lach would laugh that deep laugh, slap my back and say something like, “Good on ya, Sheila. Ya take cock like a champion, mate.”
I still don’t know exactly what the fuck they’re saying half the time, or who this Sheila was, but the jobs are getting done better than ever. The four of them work like machines during the week, and on Friday nights they work my body just as hard.
Ramrod Builders has never been more productive.
The disaster came out of nowhere. I was up on a ladder making a final adjustment when the damn thing shifted. I took a hard fall and snapped my tibia clean. Doctor said I’d be laid up for weeks. The house we were building was so close to completion it hurt to miss the final push, but Lach and the boys stepped up like absolute legends.
They kept the job rolling without me. Every Friday night, though, the four of them would roll up to my place with a slab of cold tinnies and that familiar filthy energy. I was stuck in bed with my cast propped up, horny as hell and frustrated I couldn’t join in properly.
They’d start by stripping down right there in my bedroom, those massive, sweaty bodies filling the room. Lach would usually kick things off, growling in that thick accent, “Right, boys. Let’s give the boss a proper show while we take care of him.”
They’d fuck each other right at the foot of my bed being hard, loud, and unashamed. Brody would bend Kane over, slamming into him with deep, powerful thrusts while Kane sucked Taz’s fat cock. “Fark yeah, take me dick ya dirty cunt,” Brody would grunt, hips slapping loud. Lach would be right there too, either pounding one of them or getting railed himself, his huge muscles flexing as he took it like a champ.
After they’d worked themselves up and blown a load or two, they’d turn their attention to me. One of them, usually Taz with his barrel-chested frame, would climb onto the bed carefully, lean over, and swallow my throbbing cock down to the root while another kept fucking him from behind. “Look at this hard yank meat,” he’d mumble around my shaft. “Still leakin’ for us, Sheila.”
They’d take turns. Lach would deepthroat me slow and sloppy while Kane or Brody railed his thick arse, the bed shaking with every thrust. Then they’d switch so I had a different warm, wet mouth working me while they kept fucking each other in a chain. I’d lie there, cast and all, gripping the sheets as four muscular Aussies rotated between fucking each other and sucking me dry. By the end of every Friday they’d have me drained, covered in their spit and cum, while they laughed and cracked open more beers.
All they’d ever say about the job was rapid-fire Australian babble I could barely understand: “She’s comin’ up real nice, mate,” or “Frame’s sweet as, boss, no worries.” I just nodded and enjoyed the view.
Weeks later the cast was off and I was hobbling around with a boot. Taz drove me out to the finished site in his ute. When we pulled up, I was speechless. The house was spectacular. Clean lines, perfect finishes, better than I could’ve managed myself. The landscaper Brody found did a amazing job finding a small, local guy who nailed the yards and under budget.
Walking the client through, I grinned at the four of them standing there to the side, all sweaty and proud. When the client looked over at them, they smiled and nodded all angelic. When I looked over, it was jerk off hand jesters, blow job mouths, crotch grabbing. I flipped them the bird.
I handed the client his keys.
I hobbled to where the Aussie were standing “Listen up, you Aussie sons of bitches!” I growled. “My house, all weekend. Beer, whiskey, and cock. Best of all, no phones, no work, and no fucking clothes! And bring that Sheila, whoever the fuck she is!”
The four of them let out loud whoops and howls, laughing and slapping each other on the back.
That weekend was pure chaos in the best way. We started stripping the second we walked through my front door. Clothes hit the floor and stayed there. Beers and whiskey flowed nonstop. The house turned into a nonstop fuck den with sweaty, drunk, muscular bodies everywhere.
We’d be in the living room and suddenly Lach had me bent over the couch while Brody fed me his thick cock. In the kitchen Taz had Kane pinned against the counter, pounding him senseless while I sucked Kane off. We’d stumble into the bedroom and end up in a massive pile: mouths on cocks, cocks in arses, hands everywhere. Drunk Aussie filth filled the air constantly:
“Root the fuck outta him, mate!”
“Swallow me load, ya good sheila!”
“Fark, his arse is tight as!”
“Gonna paint yer guts white, cunt!”
They’d fuck each other senseless, then drag me into the middle, taking turns riding me or filling me while the others watched and stroked. We lost count of how many loads were spilled on chests, down throats, deep inside. At one point all four of them stood around me while I sat on the couch, taking turns feeding me their cocks until my face and chest were glazed.
We drank, fucked, sucked, laughed, and passed out tangled together only to wake up and start again. By Sunday night we were exhausted, sore, sticky, and grinning like idiots.
Best damn recovery weekend of my life. Ramrod Builders was thriving, and so was I. I never did meet this “Shelia” person.
