Sex stories

My name’s Jules. I’m 23, a literature student in Montpellier, into Latin and Greek. With Émile, my buddy from uni, we ended up working a construction job near Perpignan. It’s mid-summer, three days into the gig, and we’re grinding under a blazing sun, close to 30 degrees. Sweat clings to our skin, and we reek of raw masculinity — a mix of dust, dirt, burnt wood, and man.

It’s 11am. The warm wind carries our scent of horny young workers. Our muscles glisten, tanned and tense from the effort.
We’re wearing drenched tank tops that cling to our bodies like second skin. Sweat stains stretch from armpits to chests. My nipples are hard, poking through, and the outline of our thick body hair shows beneath the fabric. Our briefs — not changed since day one — are soaked through, their waistbands stained with dirt, grease, and oil.

Our work pants — stiff and filthy — ride low when we bend over, showing a glimpse of our lower backs and the dark trail leading down, an open invitation for anyone brave enough to bury their nose or tongue.
Up front, under our navels, sweaty hair glistens before disappearing into zippers that hide a full jungle. Every now and then, we reach in to adjust our cocks — unstick the head or scratch an annoying pube. The scent on our fingers, a wild musk, hits like incense.

Our feet are trapped in battered work boots, soaked with sweat. Every step releases a wave of salty, masculine odor that would drive any foot fetishist wild. We spit from the heat, dry-throated, hacking at the dry earth with our picks for some rich British guy who wants to plant hundred-year-old olive trees.

Sweat hits the ground. Our army-green hats drip, hair glued to our heads like after a shower. The exhaustion makes us vulnerable, almost sensual. We look like young beasts — ripe for the taking, needing a strong hand or a warm mouth.

Émile and I are pretty similar: 5’11, lean, used to hiking and camping off-grid — deserts, mountains, wastelands. Going a week without changing socks or underwear? No big deal.
I’m dark-haired, hairy, Mediterranean-looking. Tight, muscled ass, a bulge that hints at a fat cock and ripe balls. My face is sharp, romantic, with piercing black eyes and a greedy mouth.

Émile is lighter — light brown hair, smooth body hair running from chest to ankles. His round ass begs to be grabbed, dug into. His bulge? A warm, swollen treat radiating heat. His jaw’s square, tough, but his soft blue eyes and long lashes give him a dangerous edge — masculine and tender, all in one.

We share a tiny room at the Brit’s house. One narrow bed. We sleep fully clothed, each on our side. The tension’s there — hard morning wood throbbing for an hour — but we don’t touch. The room stinks of horny men, but we keep it zipped up. Coffee, toothbrush, splash of water, hit the toilet, then back to work at 6am to catch the cool.

We actually kinda like it.

That midday, Richard, the Brit, steps out of his air-conditioned house. He’s 40, good-looking, straight, and shaved from head to balls — his smooth, satin-like sack swings beneath a white jockstrap. Loose satin shorts, oversized polo, flip-flops — he watches us from behind the glass like a bored king.

Then he storms down.
"You’re not finishing fast enough. If my olive trees aren’t planted by tomorrow, I’m not paying you."

That clipped British accent and his dry tone piss us off — but also stirs something else. We haven’t fucked in a week. We’re aching to unload. Our cocks are stiff clubs, our balls swollen and heavy, ready to burst.

Émile glances at me with a smirk.
"The Brit wants a show. What if he’s into more than trees?"

I get it right away.

We drop our tools, step closer to him, chests out, soaked in sweat.
"You sure you want to play boss, Richard?" I ask, wiping my forehead.

He backs up slightly, eyes glinting with tension.
"What do you mean?" he stammers.

Émile laughs.
"Look at us. We work hard, but we play harder. You curious?"

He flushes. His shorts bulge a little.
"I… I’m not into that," he mumbles — but he doesn’t move.

I take another step, voice low.
"You’ve never wanted something rough? Two dirty guys like us? We stink, we’re filthy… but we know what we’re doing."

Émile casually adjusts himself, hand in his crotch.
"We won’t force you… but if you’re into it..."

Richard swallows hard.
"Okay," he whispers.

We lead him behind the woodpile, out of view. Our tanks drop. Our pants open. He stares at our shiny cocks, our sweat-soaked hair, and kneels — shaky, but ready.

I stroke his neck.
"Go on. Taste."

He starts slow, clumsy but eager, moving between us.
Our musk makes him growl like a hungry mutt. We let him worship, then Émile pulls him up and drops his shorts.
"Your turn now."

Richard’s nervous, but so fucking hard. He nods.

We pull out a condom — we’re not stupid — and take him one at a time. First slow, then deeper as he moans:
"Don’t stop..."

Our bodies slap against his. Sweat drips. Our dirty boots press into the dry earth. The air stinks of sex and sun.

We cum all over the ground, mixing our loads in the dust. He cums too, collapsing.

We pull our clothes back on, breathing hard.

"So, boss… do we still get paid?" I ask, grinning.

He blushes, but smiles.
"Yeah… and come back tomorrow."

We get back to work, asses sore, heads buzzing, happy to turn that job site into our own summer story.