My lunch breaks tend to be short. So, every once in a while, I traded the polished marble floors and conference rooms for cracked pavement and graffiti-covered brick. It have a quiet corner, near an alley, just a block down the road from the office, which is far enough away that no one bothers me. It wasn't much of a destination, but that was the point. Nobody came here unless they had somewhere else to be. Smoking a cigar gives me the perfect excuse to get away from the office for a little longer and forget about all those fucking idiots for a while. For an hour, I could lean against the wall and let the version of myself everyone expected stay back at the office.
The alley sat less than a block from my office, tucked behind a row of warehouses that everyone else ignored. It wasn't dangerous, just forgotten. Where you get faded graffiti, dented dumpsters and weeds pushed through cracks. The air carried a mix of warm concrete, diesel fumes, and whatever the restaurant around the corner was frying that day. It wasn't the kind of place people lingered unless they had a reason, and that was exactly why I liked it.
The office disappeared the moment I stepped around the corner. No coworkers. No polite conversations. No one is asking for five minutes of my time. Just me, a cigar, and an hour where nobody expected anything, and let the world slow down.
It helped that across the street is a construction site. While I sit there smoking, I can watch the guys work. Sweaty, broad-shouldered men hauling supplies, operating heavy machinery, shouting over the noise. To me, they were all fucking sexy. These were the men I liked.
I doubt they noticed me. I was just some guy in a tailored suit sitting in the corner with a cigar. Just enjoying a break. If they thought I was strange, I didn't care. I enjoyed my quiet time away from the office, watching hot, hardworking men spend the day doing honest labor. It became part of my routine. Once or twice a week, whenever I needed a longer break, I'd head over there.
Most of the men were appealing in some way, but one man began to catch my eye. He was fucking beautiful. Dark, wavy hair with just enough curl to look effortlessly messy. Thick eyebrows. A permanent three-day beard. He carried himself with quiet confidence and a bit of a badass attitude. And best of all, he worked shirtless more often than not.
The muscles across his chest and shoulders weren't just construction. They were sculpted through hours at the gym. You could tell he had consciously carved himself into something solid, masculine, and unbelievably attractive. This was probably the reason he was so happy to be shirtless most of the time
I would always position myself for the best view of the site. I was always on the look out for him. Sometimes my gaze lingered a little too long. It wasn't easy not to. Looking at him definitely got me hard. Sometimes I'd catch him looking back at me. At first, I thought I was imagining it. Then it became obvious. I'd glance over, and there he was, staring.
His expression was impossible to read. Maybe he was annoyed that some stranger kept watching him. Maybe he was flattered by the attention, or maybe he just wanted to tell me to fuck off or worse beat my gay arse. Whatever it was, neither of us did anything about it.
So I kept showing up, always with a cigar, always taking my long lunch, always pretending I wasn't hoping to catch another glimpse of him.
One afternoon was hotter than usual. I'd loosened my tie and left the top button of my shirt undone. Even sitting in the shade, the summer heat settled over everything. I lit another cigar and watched the crew across the street as sweat glistened on bare shoulders and backs.
Then I saw him. He was staring again. Not just a passing glance this time. He was looking directly at me. It had gone beyond curiosity. If he had something to say, I wished he'd just come over and say it. Either tell me to stop watching or introduce himself. The uncertainty had become almost irritating.
Then something shifted. He went over to one of the older guys on the crew—probably the foreman—leaned over and said something to him.
A second later, he started walking across the street. Heavy work boots struck the asphalt with slow, deliberate confidence. His worn construction pants hung loose enough to suggest strength rather than hide it, hinting at powerful thighs beneath the dust and canvas. There was nothing performative about the way he walked. He simply occupied the space around him, broad shoulders rolling easily, thick forearms marked with dust and sun, every movement carrying the quiet confidence of a man who'd never had to wonder whether he belonged in his own skin.
He was almost infuriatingly attractive.
A second later, he stepped off the curb and stood near me. My pulse jumped. Then he nodded at me and asked, "Mind if I join you for a smoke?" with a crooked grin.
I smiled back. "Not at all."
He took out a cigarette and lit it. He leaned against the wall beside me, close enough that I could smell his warm skin. His smoking only added to his bad boy appeal and generally mysteriousness that made him so appealing
“You come here a lot” he said. It was more a statement than a question.
“Yeah,” I said. “When I need a break from everything else.”
He looked at me longer—properly this time. Not just curious, but more direct. As if something had shifted slightly and neither of us was entirely sure who had moved first. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
He then looked over me and said, "I've never actually smoked one of those," he said, nodding toward the cigar. "Mind if I try it?"
I was surprised by his forwardness but answered, "Go ahead," and I handed over my cigar. He turned it over in his fingers, studying it for a moment before bringing it to his lips. His first puff was clumsy. He drew too hard, immediately coughed, and laughed at himself.
I couldn't help smiling.
"Slow down," I said. "You're treating it like a cigarette. Just take your time. Take long, slow draws, let the smoke linger in your mouth"
He tried again, this time letting the smoke roll across his tongue before exhaling.
"That's better." I smiled. "I like a cigar as it forces me to slow down. You can't rush it. You sit still, breathe differently, let your mind settle. It's one of the few times during the day no one expects anything from me."
He nodded, looking pleasantly surprised. "I can see the appeal." He rolled the cigar between his fingers before taking another slow draw.
I found watching him smoke my cigar incredibly hot. The thick cloud drifted lazily between us while neither of us seemed in any hurry to break the silence.
I hesitated and decided to test it a little further. "There's something else, though. It makes me feel..." I searched for the right word. "Grounded. More comfortable in my own skin. More... masculine, I suppose. It is almost sensual, even more sexual" I looked over to see how he would respond.
He nodded slowly, as though I'd finally said what he'd already been thinking. "I get that." He looked at the cigar for a moment before handing it back. "It's not just the cigar. It's the ritual. The confidence, it’s attractive, " He smiled in a way that told me he understood. The quiet recognition of someone who knew the ritual wasn't just about smoking.
After another puff, he handed it back.
"Though it seems like an expensive habit," he said with a grin, "I might need to find myself a sugar daddy if I were going to smoke these regularly." chuckling a little, to show he was joking.
I laughed softly as I took the cigar from him, and replied, "You might want to be careful with that," I paused then followed with. "Sugar daddies usually expect a return on their investment."
He tilted his head, studying me as though he couldn't decide whether I was joking.
"And what exactly do they expect?"
The question hung between us longer than it should have. The noise of the construction site faded into the background. The shouting, the machinery, the traffic—it all seemed farther away, leaving the two of us in a quiet pocket of the afternoon.
I took a slow draw from the cigar before answering.
"Depends on the man," I said. "Some are simply happy introducing someone to a hobby they love, never asking for anything more than the occasional photo or a message saying you're enjoying it. Others are drawn to the company—the conversation, the excuse to slow down together and share a cigar with a handsome young man."
I let the smoke drift lazily between us before continuing.
"And then there are the ones who understand that a cigar isn't just tobacco. It's presence, it’s confidence." I smiled. "There's something undeniably masculine and alluring about watching someone enjoy that cigar..." I said, searching for the right words. "... to them it is captivating, something they start to crave. They then hope, maybe even expect, you’d let them give in to this temptation to know the cigarman better."
I met his eyes. "Because for some of us, it's never just about the cigar."
His grin softened slightly, less teasing now. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” he said. He shifted his weight against the wall, still close. Close enough that I was aware of every small movement, his breathing, the way his shoulders relaxed as he settled into the moment instead of standing ready to return to work.
He glanced back toward the site, then at me again. “I should probably get back,” he said, though he didn’t move immediately. “Probably,” I agreed.
Another pause. Then, instead of leaving straight away, he pushed off the wall just slightly.
“If I see you here again,” he said, “you might have to teach me how cigarmen like to enjoy a cigar properly.”
I held his gaze for a second longer than necessary. “I might,” I said. “If you’re around long enough.”
A small smile again. Then he turned and walked back across the street.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The boy got into my head. Did he realise he was playing with fire? Was he intentionally flirting? Was he hoping for something more.
The next time I was there earlier than usual, same alley, same wall, same cigar. The routine was familiar. A way of stepping out of my own life for an hour and sitting somewhere else entirely. But this time, when I looked up, he was already there.
Leaning against the opposite wall, bare chested, resting with boot up against the wall. Clearly not working. Not rushing. Just watching me like he’d been waiting. He pushed off the wall and crossed the street without hesitation.
He stopped in front of me. “Figured you’d be here,” he said.
I gave a small smile. “That confident, huh?”
He shrugged. “Or just curious.”
There was something different about him today. Less guarded. Less distance. The way he stood was looser, like he’d already decided something before he arrived.
He nodded at the cigar again. “You still offering lessons?” he asked.
He stepped closer. I took the cigar out, it was precut so I just took out my flame torch and lit it. Once burning nicely, I handed it over. This time, he didn’t cough. He took his time with it—slow, controlled, watching the smoke curl out like he was learning something about patience itself. When he handed it back, his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary.
“You always come here alone?” he asked.
I nodded. “I like the time alone. Getting out of my head.”
He studied me then—not casually this time. There was weight in it, like he was testing something, deciding whether he was allowed to step closer or should pull away. “Should I go then?” he asked.
I smiled at that, amused. “A little touchy, are we?”
His expression shifted slightly—just enough doubt to be visible.
I shook my head. “If I didn’t want you here, would I be sharing my cigar with you.” I took a slow draw before continuing. “Besides… I think you’re starting to understand it now. The appeal, the pause, the company.” I looked at him over the smoke. I then noticeably looked down at his groin, which was starting to show a clear outline of his hardening cock. “I also see that you are becoming someone who appreciates the deeper appeal of a cigar”
He didn’t answer right away. He just smiled.
“We could go somewhere quieter,” I said finally. My chest tightened slightly at the phrasing, wondering if I had gone too far.
“Quieter than this?” he replied,
I inhaled the cigar slowly, as if buying time I didn’t actually need. “Yeah,” I said. “Somewhere no one’s watching.”
He didn’t smile this time. “So show me,” he said.
I turned and started walking away, and he followed.
We walked until we reached the back of a closed restaurant. A large dumpster sat near the loading entrance, shielding the narrow service lane from the street beyond. It wasn't hidden, exactly, but it felt private enough. The city carried on only a few yards away, yet back here it seemed strangely distant.
I leaned against the brick wall and lifted the cigar to my lips, taking a slow draw while I waited for him to catch up.
When he finally stopped in front of me, he didn't say a word. He simply looked at me. The easy smile he'd worn across the street was gone. The playful construction worker had given way to something quieter—more serious. There was an intensity in his expression that made him seem older, more confident, almost intimidating.
I stepped aside and nodded toward the spot against the wall, handed him my gar . "Your turn." We traded places.
He settled against the bricks, brought the cigar to his lips, and drew deeply before letting the smoke drift lazily into the warm afternoon air.
Something had shifted between us.
This was no longer a casual conversation over a shared cigar. The silence had become its own language. He held my gaze, neither inviting nor refusing me, simply waiting to see what I would do.
I took a slow step forward. Then another. By the time I reached him, only inches separated us. The cigar rested easily between his fingers, its smoke curling upward between our faces.
Neither of us spoke.
For a long moment, we simply stood there, searching each other's eyes. He didn't move. Neither did I. The moment stretched, suspended somewhere between possibility and decision.
I slowly lowered my hand until it hovered over his groin. Even before I touched him, I could feel the warmth radiating through the worn fabric of his work pants. Before I could decide whether to close the distance, he took my wrist and gently pressed my hand against himself.
The invitation was unmistakable. I let my palm settle there. I felt the weight of cock in his pants. I felt the firm outline beneath the heavy canvas, slowly tracing its length through the fabric. He never broke eye contact.
My hand rested on his cock. With my free hand, I reached for his, lifting it above his head until his arm rested against the brick wall. The movement opened his stance, exposing the dark hair beneath his arm, still damp from a morning spent working in the summer heat. I leaned closer to his pit.
The scent of sweat, sun-warmed skin, and cigar smoke mingled into something uniquely his. The smell was heady, earthy, and undeniably masculine. I breathed it in, lingering for a moment before brushing a slow kiss against his skin. I started running my tongue over the hairs, tasting the sweat from morning work. I inhaled his scent, the muskiness was mixed with the smoke of the cigar. It was intoxicating.
He looked over at me with hungry eyes, the confidence remained, but there was something softer underneath it now—an unmistakable appreciation for the attention. Without a word, he lifted his other arm, silently inviting me closer. I smiled to myself and accepted the invitation, letting the quiet intimacy of the moment speak louder than either of us could have.
As I explored him, my hands drifted across his chest. With my fingers I massaged his nipples, testing his sensitivity. His eyes rolled back as I then moved over and used my tongue and teeth to further tease him, push him over the limits, discovering what made him catch his breath and what drew the faintest smile to his lips. Every small reaction told me something new.
His cigar, forgotten for a moment, rested loosely between his lips. I straightened up, I plucked it away with a grin and took a slow draw myself. He laughed softly, shaking his head.
"Careful," he murmured. I exhaled the smoke between us before placing it back between his fingers. "Wouldn't dream of wasting it."
Only then did I lower myself in front of him. He rested more fully against the wall, one boot shifting slightly on the pavement as he watched me.
My hands found his belt buckle. I worked it loose without hurry, taking my time as though there were nowhere else either of us needed to be. The metal gave way with a quiet click. I undid the button, lowered the zipper, and peeled the waistband back just enough to reveal the edge of his underwear, which was moist with precum. I could tell he was thinking about this for a while.
I lowered his jeans, and then took the strap of his underwear and extended it over his cock. Once released from the confines, I could appreciate the enormity of his huge cock, easily seven plus inches, which looked intimidating as it bounced up against his belly.
Clearly approving the direction he lean back on the wall.He drew a slow breath. The anticipation between us had been building since the first glance across the construction site.
Now, standing together in the quiet shelter behind the restaurant, with only the distant sounds of the city beyond the dumpster, it had become impossible to ignore. I looked up at him. His cock in front of my face, my eyes bearing into his, as I grab this cock brought it straight to my mouth.
I went all the way down in one fast move . Once at the base, I stopped and lingered, allowing my lips and mouth to accommodate him fully. I then brought myself back up, slowly, allowing my lips and tongue to drag along the shaft before stopping at the large mushroom head. My lips closed on his tip, devouring it like a lollipop, as he focused on smoking.
I then went back down, deep throating his cock in one easy movement. At the base, I extended my tongue down, reaching for his balls. I made light contact and he flinched. It was clear that this too was a sensitive point. I grabbed his shaft firmly in my fist as I lowered my lips to his balls.
I masturbated his cock, as my tongue worked on his balls. They tasted like a mix of sweat and piss. I rolled them around with my tongue, sucking each ball, one by one. As I played with his balls, I aggressively worked my fist up and down his cock.
Through my efforts, he was clearly getting close. As my fist worked his cock with greater intensity and tongue on his balls, he then moaned and screamed, “I am close”.
I then released his balls and brought my mouth once again around the head of his cock. My lips and fist working in unison to help bring him closer and close to climax. He was breathing heavier and heavier until he let out a large moan.
I felt his first load shoot deep down my throat. Trying to savour the moment, I brought my lips back resting his cock on my tongue to capture the next few loads, allowing his cum to accumulate there.
When he was clearly done, I looked up at him to catch his gaze. I wrapped my tongue around his dick one more time and slowly swallowed his load, sucking any residual cum from him.
When he was done, I stood up. He remained against the wall, catching his breath. The easy confidence he'd carried over from the construction site had given way to something quieter. For the first time since we'd met, he looked almost vulnerable.
The cigar almost forgotten rested between his fingers. I smiled, took it gently from him, and brought it to my own lips. The tobacco had mellowed, carrying traces of cedar, earth, and something uniquely his. I took a slow draw, savouring the familiar ritual as the smoke curled lazily into the afternoon air.
We stood in silence. Neither of us seemed in any hurry to leave. When I offered the cigar back, he accepted it without a word.
"Nothing beats a post-coital cigar," I said with a faint grin. "Take your time." He smiled, brought it to his lips, and drew deeply.
With each slow puff, I watched him settle back into himself. His breathing steadied. His shoulders squared. The playful confidence I'd first noticed across the street gradually returned, as though the ritual of smoking was restoring something familiar inside him.
He caught me watching. "So..." he said with a smirk. "I think I understand what you meant when you said some cigarman can have a specific way they like to enjoy their smoke."
I chuckled. "I thought you might." He nodded thoughtfully.
For another minute, we shared the silence until I glanced toward the construction site.
"You'd better get back," I said. "This smoke break has gone well beyond company policy."
He laughed as he adjusted his clothes, taking his time before fastening his belt. By the time he was finished, the self-assured construction worker had returned. He looked at me expectantly.
"So... what happens now?"
"I told you before," I said. "If you're serious about becoming a cigarman, and interested in finding a cigar daddy, we should talk. I happen to know someone who enjoys introducing good cigars to the right people."
"A generous fellow?"
"When the company is worth it."
He grinned. "And what does he expect in return?"
I met his eyes. "Only that the investment is appreciated."
His smile widened. "I think I can manage that."
"I suspected you could."
He turned and started back toward the site, boots striking the pavement with the same easy swagger I'd noticed the first day.
Halfway across the street, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Let your friend know," he called, "that you know where to find me."
I raised the cigar in a small salute. "I have a feeling he already knows how to find you."
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