"Christ, Pete, tell me again why we're doing this in July?" The foreman's voice crackled through the walkie-talkie clipped to Pete's discarded jeans.
Pietro didn't hear it over the pneumatic gun's staccato bursts as he drove rivets into the steel beam. Sweat sheeted down his muscled back, pooling at the base of his spine before dripping onto the sun-baked metal beneath him. Three hours into the shift, his clothes had become unbearable. First the shirt went, then the jeans, until he was working in nothing but boots, gloves and noise-canceling earphones, his thick Italian cock swinging freely with each movement.
Briggs' boots hit the scaffolding platform just as Pietro bent to retrieve another rivet. The foreman froze mid-step, his clipboard clattering against the railing. His gaze locked onto Pietro's heavy sac tightening against his thigh as the worker stretched forward, oblivious. The smell of hot steel mingled with Pietro's musk — salt and sun-warmed skin. Briggs swallowed hard, knuckles whitening around the clipboard.
Pietro straightened suddenly, sensing movement. His headphones slipped as he turned, revealing the foreman standing there with lips parted. "Fuck —" Pietro grabbed for his jeans, then stopped, seeing Briggs' eyes tracing the curve of his bicep down to his dust-streaked abs. A bead of sweat rolled down Pietro's sternum, catching in his dark treasure trail. Neither spoke for three pounding heartbeats.
Briggs cleared his throat. "Safety regulations specify no bare skin near welding sparks. You should know that, Pete." His voice was rough, but his fingers twitched toward his own sweat-damp shirt buttons.
Pietro smirked, shifting his weight to make his thick cock sway slightly. "Are you gonna write me up, boss?"
Briggs' nostrils flared as a gust of wind carried Pietro's scent — hot metal, dried salt, and something earthy beneath. His fingers finally gave in, popping the top button of his shirt open. "Depends." The clipboard hit the scaffolding with a clang as he stepped closer, his boots vibrating the metal grating. "How persuasive you can be about ... alternative safety measures."
Pietro's cock twitched against his thigh as Briggs reached out, calloused fingers skimming the rivet gun still warm in Pietro's grip. The foreman's other hand hovered near Pietro's hip, not touching yet, but Pietro could feel the heat radiating from those thick fingers through the inch of charged air between them. Above them, a crane swung a steel beam with a screech of cables, momentarily blocking the sun and throwing them into sharp shadow.
"Alternative measures, huh?" Pietro's voice dropped an octave as he let the tool clatter to the platform. He stepped closer, their chests nearly touching, Briggs' coarse chest hair catching on Pietro's sweat-slick pecs. The wind shifted again, carrying the musky tang of Briggs' underarms where his half-unbuttoned shirt gaped open.
Briggs exhaled sharply through his nose when Pietro's erection bumped against his thigh. "Christ, you're —"
"Hot? Yeah, boss. July sun'll do that." Pietro grinned, deliberately rocking his hips to drag his thick length along Briggs' work pants. The coarse denim friction drew a low groan from him, his balls tightening against the foreman's leg.
Briggs' fingers finally closed around Pietro's hip, digging into the sweat-slick muscle. "Not what I was gonna say." His other hand abandoned the rivet gun to trace the vein pulsing along Pietro's shaft, thumb smearing a bead of precum across the flushed head. The scent of them mixed now — Briggs' pine soap and Pietro's salt, both underscored by the iron-rich tang of the construction site.
Pietro's breath hitched as Briggs' callouses scraped his sensitive skin. "Fuck, you been staring all summer, haven't you?" He rolled his hips into the touch, his cockhead catching on Briggs' belt buckle. "Caught you looking when I bent over the rebar last week."
Briggs growled, shoving Pietro back against the steel beam with a metallic clang. Rivets scattered across the platform as he crowded in, his hairy chest pressed flush against Pietro's torso. "Shut up and lift your leg." His hand slid around to grip Pietro's ass, his fingers sinking into firm muscle.
Pietro hooked his boot on the scaffolding rail, spreading himself with a chuckle that turned into a gasp when Briggs spat into his palm and wrapped it around both their cocks. The foreman's thick, uncut length burned against Pietro's, their foreskins catching and pulling with each rough stroke. Sparks filled the air from a welder three floors below, glittering like fireflies in the periphery of Pietro's vision as Briggs kissed his neck.
"Shouldn't ... ah, fuck ... shouldn't you be watching the crew?" Pietro panted, arching into the friction. His back scraped against the steel beam's unfinished edge, the bite of pain only heightening the pleasure coiling in his gut. Below them, distant shouts and machinery noises underscored their heavy breathing — the entire job site oblivious to what was happening sixty feet in the air.
Briggs answered by brushing his lips along Pietro's shoulder, his hairy forearm pumping faster. "They think I'm up here ... Christ, you're thick ... doing a safety inspection." His other hand groped Pietro's balls, rolling the heavy sac in his palm until Pietro cursed and thrust harder, their cocks leaking streaks of precum down Briggs' wrist.
The scaffolding groaned under their shifting weight, the metal creaking like an old bedframe. Pietro glanced down through the mesh grating — just enough to see a forklift passing far below, the driver never looking up. Briggs took advantage of the distraction, twisting his wrist on the upstroke in a way that made Pietro's thighs tremble. "You gonna come on my fist like some rookie?" Briggs breathed against his ear, his own hips jerking erratically. "Or you got steel in those balls too?"
Pietro answered by seizing Briggs' wrist, stilling his hand as he ground their cocks together in slow, filthy circles. Rivulets of sweat dripped from Briggs' beard onto Pietro's collarbone as their foreheads pressed together. "I don't spook easy," Pietro murmured, his Italian accent thickening. He guided Briggs' hand lower, smearing their combined slickness over his own tight furl. "But maybe you do."
Briggs' breath punched out of him when Pietro pushed back against his fingers, the muscle yielding just enough to make his knees nearly buckle. The foreman fumbled with his belt one-handed, the buckle clinking against the scaffolding as he freed himself fully. His cock slapped against Pietro's thigh, darker and curving, whereas Pietro's was thick and straight — both flushed and leaking.
"Fuckin' smartass," Briggs snarled, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. He spat into his palm again, working the moisture between Pietro's cheeks with rough, impatient circles. The wind carried off Pietro's groan as Briggs' middle finger breached him, the sudden stretch pulling a string of Italian curses from his lips. Briggs grinned, twisting his wrist to drag his calloused fingertip over that sweet spot inside. "That steelworker stamina gonna hold up?"
Pietro's knees nearly gave out when Briggs added a second finger, scissoring him open with the same no-nonsense efficiency he used to inspect faulty welds. Below them, the crane's warning siren blared, masking Pietro's choked gasp as Briggs crooked his fingers just right. His cock jerked against his stomach, leaving a glistening trail on Briggs' sweat-darkened chest hair. The foreman kissed him then — all teeth and dominance — their beards scraping.
Metal groaned as Pietro braced himself against the beam, his muscles flexing under a fresh coat of sweat. Briggs worked him open with relentless precision, his other hand gripping Pietro's hip hard enough to bruise. "Still talkin' shit?" Briggs murmured against his lips, rubbing his own leaking cock against Pietro's thigh.
Pietro's retort dissolved into a moan when Briggs twisted his fingers deeper, the rough pads catching his rim on every thrust. The scaffolding trembled as a load of I-beams was hoisted nearby, but neither man glanced away from the other's fever-bright eyes. Pietro reached between them, wrapping his fist around Briggs' cock with a possessive squeeze. "Bet you jerk off thinking about this after every safety meeting," he taunted, thumbing the wet slit.
Briggs growled, withdrawing his fingers abruptly. Pietro gasped at the sudden emptiness, watching as the foreman spat into his palm again before lining up. The first press of Briggs' thick head against him stole his breath — hotter than the July sun, more insistent than the pneumatic gun still vibrating on the platform beside them. Briggs didn't ease in; he rocked forward with a grunt, burying half his length in one relentless push.
"Fuck —" Pietro's fingers scrabbled against the steel beam behind him, his muscles clamping down instinctively. Briggs' chest hair stuck to his own sweat-slick skin as the foreman leaned in, nipping at his jaw. The stretch burned deliciously, every inch of Briggs' cock dragging against sensitive nerves Pietro didn't know he had. Below them, a welding arc flashed, casting their tangled shadows stark against the unfinished framework.
Briggs paused when his throbbing boner was fully seated, his breath hot and ragged against Pietro's neck. The wind carried the scent of their coupling — sweat and precum. Pietro rolled his hips experimentally, drawing a guttural curse from Briggs as his cockhead nudged something deep inside that made Pietro's vision whiten at the edges.
"Move, you bastard," Pietro growled, digging his fingers into Briggs' shoulders. The foreman obeyed with a brutal thrust that knocked the breath from Pietro's lungs. Each snap of Briggs' hips sent shockwaves through Pietro's body — the steel beam behind him vibrating in sync with their rhythm, the scaffolding cables singing under the strain.
Briggs' beard scraped Pietro's collarbone as he muttered filthy praise between panting breaths. "Christ, took you all summer to — ah fuck — to bend over for me." His hands slid down to cup Pietro's ass, spreading him wider as he angled deeper. The raw sound of skin slapping skin mixed with the distant thunder of a cement mixer below.
Pietro's knuckles whitened against the steel beam, the metal burning his palms. Every thrust jolted sparks up his spine, Briggs' balls slapping against his taint in a rhythm that matched the jackhammer now starting up forty feet away. A rivet rolled under Pietro's boot, nearly sending them both sprawling before Briggs caught him with an iron grip on his hip.
"Easy, cowboy," Briggs growled, but his voice cracked halfway through as Pietro clenched down hard. The foreman's fingernails bit into Pietro's flesh, his other hand fumbling between them to grip Pietro's neglected cock. The sudden friction made Pietro arch off the beam, his shout lost in the screech of a forklift's brakes below.
Briggs' rhythm stuttered when Pietro ejaculated unexpectedly — hot stripes of sperm painting his stomach and Briggs' fist. The foreman cursed, his thrusts turning erratic as Pietro's convulsions milked him. Pietro felt the moment Briggs tipped over the edge, his cock pulsing potent semen deep inside with a low groan that vibrated through Pietro's ribs.
Their chests heaved as Briggs withdrew, his softening cock dragging obscenely against Pietro's well-used hole. A thick strand of semen dripped onto Pietro's boot, gleaming in the harsh sunlight. Briggs wiped his hand down Pietro's sweaty thigh with a chuckle. "Guess that safety inspection went longer than planned."
Pietro sagged against the beam, his spent cock twitching against his belly. The metal scorched his back, but he didn't care — every nerve still tingled from Briggs' rough handling. Below them, a crew shouted over the whine of a circular saw, completely unaware of the debauchery above. Briggs adjusted himself, tucking his damp cock back into his jeans with a wince. "Gonna be sore tomorrow," he muttered, but the grin pulling at his beard told Pietro he wasn't complaining.
A rivet clattered between them, rolling toward the edge of the platform. Pietro caught it before it tipped over, his fingers brushing Briggs' boot. The foreman's breath hitched — a tiny, vulnerable sound that made Pietro's stomach flip. He pocketed the rivet with a smirk. "Souvenir."
Briggs cleared his throat, adjusting his hardhat with trembling hands. His shirt hung open, dark chest hair matted with sweat and Pietro's cum. The wind carried the scent between them, mingling with hot metal and the coppery tang of fresh-cut steel beams. Below, a crew shouted measurements, their voices floating up through the skeletal framework like distant echoes.
"You're clocking out at 4:30 sharp," Briggs said, his voice rough. A rivet glinted between his fingers as he twisted it absently. "Got a cooler in my truck. Beer. Steaks." His boot scuffed the scaffolding grating when Pietro smirked. "Don't make me say it, Torigi."
Pietro stretched deliberately, letting Briggs watch the way his spent cock swayed against his thigh. Below them, a hydraulic lift whined — someone moving rebar. The smell of hot tar rose from the lower floors. "Say what?" He stepped closer, running a thumb through the mess cooling on Briggs' chest hair. "That you wanna take me home and fuck me in a real bed with AC?" His finger came away glistening. "Or that you'll fire me if I say no?"
Briggs caught his wrist, licking Pietro's fingertip clean with a slow drag of his tongue that made Pietro's knees wobble again. His free hand drifted lower, tracing Pietro's oversensitive rim where Briggs' cum seeped out warm. "Both," he murmured, pressing two fingers back in just to watch Pietro's abs clench.
The scaffolding trembled as a load of steel pipes was hoisted nearby — close enough that Pietro could see the crane operator squinting in their direction. Briggs didn't pull out, just curled his fingers deeper as Pietro bit his lip to stay quiet. "Careful, boss," Pietro gasped, hips twitching helplessly. "The guy on crane ten's got binoculars."
Briggs smirked, twisting his wrist to rub against Pietro's prostate in slow circles. "Then stay still." His other hand clamped over Pietro's mouth as a bead of sweat rolled down between them, catching in their tangled chest hair. The crane's shadow passed over them, momentarily cooling their overheated skin.
Pietro's thighs trembled, his cock twitching back to half-mast as Briggs worked him open with relentless precision. The foreman's calloused fingers dragged along sensitive inner flesh, pulling another thick glob of semen from Pietro's hole — his own spent load glistening under the afternoon sun. The crane's gears whined directly overhead now, close enough that Pietro could hear the operator humming off-key.
Briggs withdrew his fingers with a filthy pop, wiping them on Pietro's hip before casually buttoning his shirt. His knuckles brushed Pietro's softening cock, drawing a hissed breath. "Clock's ticking," he murmured, adjusting his belt buckle with a clink. "My truck's parked behind the porta-potties."
Pietro grinned, scooping his jeans off the scaffolding. "Better chill those beers extra cold," he said, shaking out the denim before stepping in. The fabric clung to his damp thighs, still sensitive from Briggs' rough handling. He tugged the zipper up slowly, watching the foreman's throat bob as his cock disappeared behind faded blue cotton.
Briggs retrieved his clipboard with stiff movements, the metal clanging when his elbow knocked against the railing. His handwriting was uncharacteristically shaky as he checked off an imaginary safety inspection. Twenty feet below, two electricians argued over conduit placement, oblivious to the way Briggs' knuckles whitened around his pen whenever Pietro adjusted himself with a wince.
Pietro worked the rest of the afternoon shirtless but grudgingly zipped, his jeans sticking to the drying mess between his thighs. Every time he bent to retrieve a rivet, Briggs' cum seeped warm against his skin, forcing him to bite back a groan. The foreman's presence lingered like sunburn — three floors away reviewing blueprints but somehow still making Pietro's ass clench when a gust of wind carried his aftershave across the skeletal framework.
By 3:30 PM, heat mirages shimmered off the steel beams. Pietro wiped his forehead on his bicep, catching the moment Briggs "inspected" Duvall's welding work. The foreman's thick fingers lingered near the younger man's belt buckle, but his eyes flicked upward, locking onto Pietro with predatory intent. Pietro deliberately palmed himself through his jeans, grinning when Briggs nearly dropped his clipboard.
The pneumatic gun's recoil vibrated through Pietro's arms as he secured the last rivet of the day. His lower back ached — half from labor, half from Briggs' earlier thoroughness. A trickle of semen escaped when he crouched to stow tools, the dried streaks inside his thighs crackling like old glue. Across the gap, Garcia whistled sharply. "Torigi! Foreman wants his impact driver back." He tossed it over — deliberately wide — forcing Pietro to stretch. The crew's laughter died when Briggs appeared behind them, his shadow falling across Pietro's exposed abs.
Briggs snatched the tool mid-air, his forearm brushing Pietro's stomach. "Break time's over," he barked, but his thumb traced Pietro's hipbone under the pretense of steadying him. The crew scattered, leaving them alone with the metallic tang of cooling steel and the musk rising from Pietro's unbuttoned waistband. Briggs exhaled through his nose, pupils dilating. "Still leaking?"
Pietro adjusted himself with deliberate slowness, watching Briggs' jaw tighten. "Like a busted hydrant." His jeans peeled away with a sticky sound when he straightened, Briggs' cum gluing the denim to his inner thighs. The foreman's knuckles cracked around the impact driver.
Four o'clock sunlight glinted off rebar as they worked separate zones — Briggs inspecting weld points with unnecessary thoroughness, Pietro securing beams while sweat loosened the dried streaks down his legs. Every stolen glance across the skeletal framework thrummed with unsaid promises. Twice, Pietro caught Briggs sniffing his own fingers when he thought no one was looking.
The crew's break time chatter died whenever Briggs passed. Electricians stopped mid-sentence as the foreman paused near Pietro's workstation, pretending to examine safety harnesses while his boot tapped out a restless rhythm against the scaffold. Pietro smirked, rolling a rivet between his grease-blackened fingers before flicking it — ping — against Briggs' hardhat.
Briggs didn't turn around. Just hooked his thumb in his belt loop, fingers brushing the outline of his hardening cock through denim as he surveyed the crew below. Pietro inhaled sharply through his nose when Briggs casually scratched himself, the motion exaggerated enough to make Pietro's pulse spike. Forty feet away, Duvall dropped his wrench with a clatter.
By 4:15 PM, the heat had turned the scaffolding into a griddle. Pietro's jeans clung like a second skin where Briggs' spend had dried and rehydrated with fresh sweat. Every rivet he drove home sent a jolt through his abused muscles — a visceral reminder of Briggs' thick fingers stretching him open against vibrating steel. The foreman's shadow fell across his work area twice, close enough Pietro could smell the pine tar soap under his own musk lingering on Briggs' beard.
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