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By ty dehner
It is so fucking quiet; I can only hear my breathing. Seems I am so alone, no one around for miles. This is hard work and my gear is pretty soaked in sweat. I’m tired as shit, Sir is the toughest boss I’ve ever worked for. But the rewards are fucking awesome in the end.
The crew has left for the day, as I see Sir heading down the gravel road in his truck to pick me up. He really gave me the shit job today, literally. Cleaning outhouses is not the glamour job in construction, but as a pad pig, it is my job. Once every two weeks. There are 20 across the sites that Sir oversees. It is amazing how messy these guys are, though I admit I get a little horny thinking of them in their Carhartt’s, boots, jeans and muddy work overalls doing their business in these outhouses. When I work in these I have to wear rubber gloves and gas mask that Sir requires I wear while cleaning. The guys on the crew think I’m nuts for wearing it, but it is required, and I do it. I think Sir has me do it, because it humiliates me some and he likes that on occasion.
This week I’m in my black Carhartt overalls with, of course, my football pants and cup, with my uniform jersey on underneath. Even though it was warm out, I am required to keep my flannel shirt and Carhartt coat on, as well as work gloves. I’m still breaking in my new White’s lace up boots. Sir had them custom done with a small leather strap at the top that locks the boots on. My work uniform is finished off by a Packer’s cap that Sir soaked in his piss before letting it dry. On days that I work hard or am wearing the gas mask my sweat mixes with the dried piss and I do begin to smell!
By ty dehner
It wasn’t hard to spot him as I came down the jet way. A smile came across his face as he saw me, and we hugged for a long while. He even kissed me briefly as not to startle too many of those conservatives in the terminal. His hand held my neck securely as we walked away from the gate. He certainly did look great. He was in a nice pair of Wranglers that stacked well on his black boots. I was a bit surprised at the size of his belt buckle which he joked would be ripping up my ass some night. He was, of course, in a football jersey, team colors of the Roughriders. His hat, also of the Roughriders, was well worn. We headed out of the terminal, out to his Ford F250 and out of the airport.
As he drove me around the city, showing me the sites, he would reach over and grab my hand. We would hold hands, on occasion squeezing to let each other know we were finally touching again. It was fun seeing this new city, him knowing all the interesting spots. At one point we stopped and went for a walk around Fort Calgary. Many times, I couldn’t take my eyes off my Linebacker Sir. We returned to the truck and while driving past the Saddle Dome, he told me that we will be in town for the Stampede in a few months and that the rodeo is exciting!
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By ty dehner
Long distance, I hate those words. There never seems to be anything positive about the two of them. We know it costs money anytime you want to talk to someone on the phone, long distance. Then there is that night you meet a hot guy, a guy that looks fucking awesome in his jeans and football jersey, a guy that grabs you by the neck, spits in your face then slams his tongue down your throat, trapping you in the spell of is blue eyes.
That night that you go back to his hotel room and talk all night, lying in the pair of football pants he allows you to wear that he has sweated in for weeks while working out in the gym. Nothing matters but lying next to him, laying your head on his chest as you listen to him breathing and sharing his life with you. In the morning as you’re driving home, it dawns on you that he isn’t from your city and if you want things to continued, yes, it has to be a long-distance relationship. You see, long distance is never good.
Yea, I was a fool for allowing me to be sucked in, but when you meet the right guy, you must believe don’t you? But damn if the Gods didn’t conspire against us.
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By ty dehner
My gloved hands gripped the bar holding 150 pounds of weights. I was on my last rep. As I exhaled and started to life, Sir pushed his cock into my mouth and down my throat. My arms burned as I got the weight to the top and waited for Sir to piston his cock in and out of my throat five times before I could bring the weights down. Once my throat cleared I inhaled through my mouth, and I could taste the leather, sweat and pre-cum of my Master. He smiled as he looked down at me, wearing his full motorcycle cop duty uniform. His gloved hands lightly tapped my cheek. The heavy leather hood I was locked in had a hole for my mouth that is open when I do my workouts and has eye holes. The rest of my head is encased in leather.
The next rep repeats what Sir did, but he quickens the pace of this pistoning, then faster for the next. On the last lift he slams his cock in deeper, piston-style, quickly shooting his load down my throat as my arms burn and struggle to keep the weight above me. When he pulls out, I drop the weights on the stand and Sir slaps my face hard before telling me I did a good job.