We know construction workers are romantic by the truckload. Scroll down to read an excerpt from A Secret Boyfriend by H J Perry
He knows the truth: Kevin is bisexual. He’s had girlfriends and craves experience with men. He’d never tell anyone his sexy or romantic fantasies. And could never imagine coming out to his dad and mates. They are all macho construction workers.
Out, loud, and proud: Perry is at a stage in his life when he doesn’t need a boyfriend just casual fun. He avoids hookup apps. There are only so many times a guy can read “no femmes” before it messes with his self-esteem. Luckily, there are plenty of other ways to meet guys. Some of those are not things you’d admit to your coworkers in the supermarket.
Unlikely circumstances keep bringing Kevin and Perry together.
Kevin & Perry’s story is (book 4) another low angst, feel-good, gay romance in the Sky High Scaffolders (Our Secret Wedding) series.
A Secret Boyfriend
by H J Perry
Cupping and squeezing, firm, warm hands glided over oiled skin. They traveled up his legs, squeezing and rubbing his quadriceps before the flat palms stroked down toward his knees.
Only the towel prevented Kevin’s already hard cock from bobbing freely. It tapped against the fluffy terry fibers as it strained and bounced.
The masseur’s hands returned, as Kevin knew they would, working up the inside, then between Kevin’s thighs.
Knowing what would come next, it was time for Kevin to open his eyes and watch Michael at work. They both knew how the discussion would go, the same conversation they had every time Kevin visited this therapist, which he had been doing for almost two years.
Michael’s voice sounded low and hushed, in harmony with the sounds of nature that streamed through the speakers.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Kevin gave a subtle nod and let his eyes fall on the tenting white linen.
Michael removed the towel and licked his lips. Was he aware that he did that? He took hold with a confident grip, engaging the unselfconscious erection with firm but slow movements. The stretchy fabric of the black tracksuit bottoms did nothing to conceal a growing bulge that wasn’t there earlier. He liked earning a little extra money this way, apparently.
Whether the masseur was hard or not made no difference. Like the rest of the massage, the interaction was a one-way street. Michael worked. Kevin lay back, enjoyed, and asked for nothing more.
Michael’s hands were big, strong, and totally masculine. Watching them work, wrapped around his dick, Kevin was well aware of the strength in the hands and fingers that previously kneaded the muscles of his back and shoulders with such force.
Kevin could have booked a female masseuse, but every couple of months, he’d see Michael instead. It was the excellent massage that kept Kevin returning to the same therapist, not the happy ending. At least, that was what he told himself. It wasn’t because he liked a man touching his dick or seeing the signs of Michael’s arousal too.
A hand was just a hand. It was just a hand job. Anyone could do it, and it would feel the same.
That was what he would have told people if it were the sort of thing he talked about, which it wasn’t.
Kevin could have imagined it was a woman’s hand, although if he wanted to do that, it might have been easier with his eyes shut.
He always watched.
At technique, Michael was an expert. He knew how to handle cocks because he had one of his own—one of his own that was bulging in his work clothes at that moment. Kevin told himself that he liked what men did to him because men knew what they were doing.
Michael had never offered to take his clothes off, and Kevin never asked. Kevin had a limited experience of naturist massage, which he’d never forget and often remembered at times like this. When Michael’s hand brought a special kind of pleasure to Kevin’s day, he often thought of the nude masseur.
Once he had traveled a long way from home, by train, after finding the place on the internet. A naturist resort not far out of London.
On arrival, he booked a massage and was asked whether he’d prefer a male or female therapist without any hint from the receptionist that there was a correct answer. She didn’t bat an eyelid when he asked for the man, as if it were perfectly usual.
He assumed the male masseuse was straight because it wasn’t a gay venue and the guy didn’t look gay. As if as any man could look gay when completely naked. He was fit, obviously worked out, and the lack of pale skin indicated he regularly sunbathed nude. He was an older guy, probably late forties, old enough to be Kevin’s father.
There was nothing on the website or at the studio to suggest anything other than massage took place, so Kevin assumed that was all there was.
No towels for modesty.
No clothes or uniform for the therapist.
And Kevin wondered how he’d plucked up the courage to visit this place and why. He had an inkling about why, but he buried that thought extremely deeply.
The back massage was most relaxing while he lay on his stomach. Kevin could’ve almost dozed off and drooled onto the sheets beneath him.
When the naked masseur worked on Kevin’s calves, he lifted the legs and replaced them in a position that left him wide open. When he worked up the back of Kevin’s legs, he went right up to the very top, skimming over Kevin’s balls.
By the time Kevin turned over, he was half hard. It was a natural, automatic response. It didn’t mean anything. There was no hiding it; he hadn’t been offered a towel to cover any embarrassment.
Respectfully, the masseur didn’t stare, comment, or seem embarrassed in any way.
On that occasion, when lying on his back, Kevin watched with fascination while the masseur worked, his exposed cock growing from flaccid to erect.
When the nude masseur offered to finish him off, Kevin drew on a reservoir of courage to suggest something he didn’t think he could say. Being far from home and in a place where he wasn’t known allowed Kevin the freedom to boldly experiment. He asked if mutual touching was acceptable.
Kevin sat up and swung his legs around so he was perched on the edge of the massage couch. The masseur stood in front of him, between his legs; so close their dicks almost touched. Almost.
A faint hint of coffee expelled from the man’s breath as they squared up and reached for each other’s dicks. Kevin knew he was as good as done as soon as they started. The entire one hour’s massage had been foreplay for that moment.
Stuff Kevin didn’t want to think about.
There was no thinking. No drawing this out. No holding back.
Kevin put his left hand behind him for support to stop himself from recoiling backward. He shot his load with force, like a fountain, splattering both of them.
Kevin didn’t release the man’s cock from the grasp of his right hand. He kept up his part of the bargain, working at a steady pace. White globules of cum clung to the hairs on the masseur’s chest. On his own body, Kevin felt it turn cold and start to dribble and stream down his body. Only a minute later, with less force, more of a gushing waterfall than a geyser, the naturist came over Kevin’s hand and leg.
Just two horny guys giving each other a hand.
Kevin thought about that handjob frequently, including when he lay on Michael’s massage couch.
At the end of the day, it was just a hand.
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