The summer was getting hotter, not cooler, I swear, the sweat was pouring off me like it hadn’t half done the day before. I had drunk most of my three-gallon cooler of water already and it was only two-thirty in the afternoon! God, what the hell had I gotten myself into?
I did like I had the day before, raised up onto my knees (knee-pads, actually) and took off my helmet, this time I wiped a bandanna I’d put into my rear pocket across my face. My body always did sweat a lot more than normal people, and my workclothes today (a carbon copy of yesterday’s, dark grey cotton fabric, sturdy, easy to clean, cheap, and durable) were stained that same darker shade where the clothing touched my body directly. My back must be solid sweat-soaked cotton workshirt, I know when I wiped that bandanna across my face and neck, it was practically dripping. I lifted it up and wrung it out and a stream of my sweat poured onto the tin roof.
“Hello!” came the call from below and I turned to look. The guy from the day before, he must have just come home from his job. Hell, was he going to bitch about me wringing my salty sweat onto his precious tin shingles? Salt wouldn’t be good for shingles, I agree, but you can’t put those things on a house roof without expecting some wear!
“Hello!” I waved back at him.
“Hot day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir!” I said with feeling.
“Why don’t you come inside for a half hour or so, cool down, and have some iced tea with me?” he volunteered. “No reason to kill yourself up there.”
“Well...” I looked at what I’d done, what I had to do. Hell, a half hour wouldn’t make that much difference, and with the extra pay rate, I could work an extra day or so if I had to. Besides, I still didn’t know if he was looking for that “special service” these freelance jobs can entail.
I climbed down the ladder and could feel his eyes boring into my ass as it went down the ladder. I knew I was a hell of a buffed stud, I’d inherited some strong Nordic features from my mother’s side, I was brown-haired, long and lean-faced, my shoulders were broad and my chest muscled, my arms rippled with my biceps and triceps flexing as I wended my way down, my waist was slim and trim as any swimsuit model’s, my legs powerful and long and I dripped masculinity as well as sweat (a lot of the latter, my family were renowned sweaters, my father always said, we pour salty sweat/water out by the gallon, but it lets us work all day in heat that would lay anyone else low) and I got down and let him look me over.
“Goodness, but you’re drenched with sweat!” he marveled.
“Yeah, it’s hot as hell up there.” I said. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.”
“That’s all right.” he told me earnestly. “Please, come in, we’ll let you cool down and see what we can do for you. Get you out of those wet clothes!” And before I could respond to that last, he was off toward the main part of the house.
Get me out of these clothes? Was he kidding? Hell, I HAD picked myself up a cocksucker! No wonder he’d bought these prissy tin shingles and come looking for just one man to put them all up!
And it had taken him until now to make his move! About fucking time! I got inside and practically fainted. So wonderfully cool! My external temperature dropped thirty degrees in ten seconds, and felt wonderful! I decided right then that if he wanted to whirl on my love-shaft, he was going to get to!
The iced tea was laid out on the coffee table in front of the couch, where he gestured to me to sit down. Poured me a glass and I took it with sincere thanks and just held it to my forehead for a moment. “Ahhhhh!” I sighed, closing my eyes then I lowered the glass to my lips and tilted it back and took several heft swallows. It was just sweetened enough to take the sourness out of the tea, it was ambrosia. I lowered it to see him holding out a shirt to me.
“You need to get out of those sweaty clothes, that salt will burn your skin.” he told me. I got my first good look at him now, he was a good decade older than me, maybe forty, his face was plain but regular. A good woman could love him, a runway model never. There was that indefinable set to his body that said “gay” right off, the touch of feminine in a cloak of masculinity that can always be covered but never totally dismissed. Darker brown hair than mine, but less of it, darker eyes, darker-toned skin than mine, or would be if I weren’t burned by the sun over most of a summer on hot roofs without shade all day long. Darker than the part of my body that were covered, I should say.
“Oh, I’ll be all right....” I started.
“No, no, I insist. I have a fresh pair of work clothes for you right here.”
“Shirt and pants?”
“Underclothes, too.” He said, looking over to a pile of everything a man would need to wear. “Can’t have you in those sweat-stained things. The salt will ruin the tin shingles if too much of it gets on you.”
“I can bring some fresh clothes from home.” I demurred.
“But that’s another day. Please, you still have some hours left to work today. Let’s get you changed.”
Okay, I didn’t need to torment this guy, he needed to keep his little cover-story going for now. “I guess you’re right.” I said and stood up, unbuttoning my shirt. His eyes feasted upon my hands moving over my chest as I dealt with the heavy buttons the workshirt favored, oversized discs of plastic with four large holes to let thick threads be used to hold them in place. I got them off and showed my tanktop under my shirt and started to drop the shirt onto the coffee table.
“No, no, let me take that.” He said. “You take off your tanktop as well, I have a t-shirt for you.”
I turned toward the wall as I pulled off my shirt. I was letting him look first at my back, the pulling off my tanktop would make the entire back ripple as I lifted my arms, first my lower back, then my ribs and shoulder as I brought it over my head. That was all I intended, a bit of eye candy for the guy (he was paying for it, after all) but the wall had a small mirror on it and that let me see that he wasn’t looking at me at all! Instead, he had my shirt in his hands and when I’d turned my back on him, he’d taken the chance to do what he’d really wanted in all this “getting me out of my salty clothes.”
He had his face buried in my shirt and was inhaling it deeply as he could. I smiled, lowered my tanktop, not turning around, and said, “Can you hand me that t-shirt now, sir?”
He lowered the shirt hastily and looked at me, saw my back was turned, and placed the shirt to one side and picked up the t-shirt and came toward me.
I turned, using a pose that made every muscle in my body flex and show to him as I moved. You know, my feet facing at a right angle to my upper body, my further shoulder tilted upwards, my nearer shoulder tilted downwards, all of that will make the light shine (I didn’t need to be oiled up for it, my sweat was that thick on me even under the tanktop) and I held that while I held out my nearer hand for the tanktop.
He was breathing hard as he got closer and I had to smile. I didn’t take it, I said instead, “You know, before I put that on, I’d better get out of the rest of these clothes, hadn’t I?”
“Yeahhhh!” He sighed and I grinned at him, knowing what he wanted, telling him, it’s okay, man, I know you want this body. It’s okay, you can look all you want.
He licked his lips and I said, “You know, I’m so sweaty and hot here, I kind of hate to drip all over everything. You got anything I can use to dry me off? Anything at all?”
He licked his lips again and I smiled broader and said, “You know, I think the best way to get all this sweat off of me would be for you to lick it off me. Don’t you think?” I cocked one eyebrow up and tilted the smile into a smirk. Come and get me, it said.
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