Handy Men Do It Better

Handy Men Do It Better

By Dan Sexton

Published by Bettencourt Concepts

Copyright © 2014 Dan Sexton

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Design by Melody Simmons from eBookindiecovers

This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning
: Contains strong sexual content between consenting male adults, including but not limited to mutual masturbation, oral sex, and anal penetration. Safe sex should
always
be practiced. The acts that occur in this story are not meant to encourage sex in a non-committal fashion. Any such behavior in this book is only used to illustrate a story.

Oh, yeah but with all that, enjoy!
Handy Men Do It Better
is
not
an all-sex-no-plot book. It’s good writing and a fucking fantastic story—and the men are really hot too.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

J
ake Honeywell’s pickup barreled down Farm Road and billowed dust in its wake. Inside the cab, he shifted into third gear and grabbed his Red Bull from the center console. Linkin Park blared from the CD player.

“Fuck.” Jake slammed on the brakes and took a quick left. “That came up fast.” He downshifted.

The guitar solo started and Jake tapped his thumb against his naked thigh. He wore an old pair of cutoff corduroy jeans, which had remnants of the prior day’s landscaping job. At twenty-three, the blond, green-eyed, six foot two man bobbed his head to the music and tapped a work boot against the footrest.

A honking noise blared over the singer’s cry. Jake reached under the company paperwork on the passenger seat and scrambled for his cell phone.

Honk! Honk!

He tapped the Answer button before the annoying ringtone went off again.

“Well, if it isn’t my lovely air-headed...I mean fair-headed sister,” he answered.

“Very funny, Nimrod.”

He pressed the clutch and threw the truck into fourth. “You know I love you.”

“What the hell are you listening to?”

Jake shut the radio off. “Just a little rock music to get me going.” He picked up the Red Bull, and put it between his legs. “Say, why you calling me so early?” He looked at the clock radio. “It’s only seven in the morning.”

“To see that you’re okay. Why else?”

He picked up his drink, took a sip and muffled, “Um-hum.”

“Mom worries when you don’t come home.”

Jake shook his head, looked in the rearview mirror at his hair sticking up and patted it down. “I’m not a teenager anymore, Jocelyn.”

“You don’t have to tell that to me. I’m not the one worried.”

“Uh huh.” He looked over at the orange grove to his right.

“I’m telling you. She barely lets me stay out past ten! I won’t have to worry about that when I’m studying abroad next month.”

“Kid, there’ll be chaperons,” Jake said.

“Well, once I graduate next year, I’m out of here.”

“Are those college applications coming along?” He futzed with a wisp of hair.

“Yes, but I’m not calling to tell you I finished my FSU app last night, or what my interview with Juan did for the essay. I’m calling to find out where you are, and why you’re not home.”

Jake’s baseball cap—the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, his favorite team—sat on the floor of the passenger area. Jake reached for it while keeping an eye on the road. “Joc”—he grabbed the cap, sat back up and put it on—“I met a guy last night.”

“Another one?” Jocelyn asked.

Jake confided in his baby sister, the only other person—aside from himself and the men he’d had sex with—to whom he had come out. A palm tree farm whizzed by. “What do you mean another one?”

In the past, Jake had periodically messed around with other guys but only recently admitted to it being something more than a casual interest. His refusal to fight his desires any longer had him pumping penises—including his own—like a kid would obsess over a new Xbox on Christmas morning.

“You’re being safe, right?”

Jake preferred not to share the details with his sister. “Yes, of course.” She didn’t need to know that his exploits consisted mostly of jacking off and sucking. Rule number one: no ass play unless the guy really meant something—especially bottoming.

He’d messed around with nearly every bud who fit the bill—meaning equal height, if not taller, and a rugged, masculine, hotter-than-Hades look. Jake’s manly preference for big, tough, and macho whet his appetite, but only for so long. After a night of frolic, by daybreak his libido would often crest again—as it had this morning driving his Ford Ranger, through the Florida countryside, after spending the night with a Bucs’ fan from the club.

“You didn’t even come home for dinner,” Jocelyn said. “Mom made meatloaf.”

“Any good?” The main road approached, and Jake slowed down.

“What do you think?” she asked.

He put on his left blinker. “I’m glad Frank served burgers last night at the club.”

“You met him at Frank’s?” Jasper Hills, Florida, a hundred miles from any big city, limited Jake’s hookups. Frank’s—a bar on the outskirts of the township—rallied Northwest Florida’s horny gay men for miles.

“Who?” He pulled onto the main road.

“The guy you were with?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d seen him there before. He’s a football fan. I went to the club straight from work.” He brushed the leg of his cutoffs. “In fact, I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

“Jake! You must smell. That’s disgusting.”

“Mom up?”

Jocelyn didn’t say anything for a bit. Jake imagined her sitting at the kitchen table, like always, craning her neck toward the downstairs bedroom. “No,” Jocelyn said, “she drank practically a whole box of wine last night. You know what that means.”

“Up around noon.”

“You got it.”

“Well, I’m swinging by to hop in the shower.” He looked down at the paperwork beside him. “I’ve got a job in Black Oak.” He picked at the job logs. “And a bunch of lawns this afternoon.”

“It’s past seven. You’re already late.”

“And you’re going to be late for school. Now make yourself some breakfast and get yourself ready. Did you do your homework?”

“I did.”

“I’ll see you in a little bit. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Jake hung up the phone and threw it back onto the passenger seat. “Love that little kid.” He turned the radio back on, shifted, and the pickup raced down the interstate.

O
ff the rural highway, another dirt road led an additional five miles to the house. About a third of the way down the path, Jake pulled off and into the Fosters’ old farm. With his truck coming to a stop under the shade of an oak, and with a plume of dirt settling about, he shut off the engine.

A dead cypress tree hung precariously over the abandoned house. The bank had recently boarded up the windows and bolted the doors, which had saddened Jake, for he’d often spent time inside clearing his thoughts and using the space to obtain some much-needed privacy. With his stepbrother and him occupying the same room, Mom’s little two-story grew smaller.

He took out his phone and sent his boss a text that he’d be running late, which he knew Gregg wouldn’t mind. He owed Jake time anyway. Being a salaried foreman had its perks.

Jake took a deep breath and exhaled. The pickup ticked and hissed its way to cool, and silence ensued. “Peace,” Jake said and leaned back as much as he could—the seat’s back permanently welded in place from a snap long ago. He scooched down and let his head fall against the vinyl headrest.

Over the truck’s faded-teal hood, acres of overgrown weeds filled his view. Jake envisioned a land of tall, mature trees and lush green grass. He loved to fill his mind with landscaping ideas, but right now he had another thing to attend to.

He reached down between his legs and rubbed the soft, tan corduroy bulge. He loved the velvety touch on his hand and pressed a palm against his growing erection. Jake moaned. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift to someone sucking his cock. “Mmmm.” A muscular dude with tattoos now sat on his dick. “Yeah.”

He unbuttoned the top of his pants and unzipped them. All eight inches bounced out, and he took to it—at first in delicate touches, and then tight, hard bursts. His free hand worked its way up his shirt to tweak his nipples and grip the firmness of his pecs. While he enjoyed masturbating, his penchant for release grew so strong he needed to ejaculate often to relieve pain. He couldn’t do it in his room—not with his stepbrother about. He could take to the bathroom, and often did, but with a full house, he couldn’t express himself loudly like he enjoyed.

Jake knew the safe, desolate locations to bust his nut.

“FUCK!” Jake yelled.

A crow flew out from the cypress.

For a moment, Jake stopped beating off. Close to the edge of orgasm, he looked down at his thick mushroom head and watched it throb. He’d been trying to teach himself the art of holding back—timing himself to prevent his cum from shooting too soon.

His cock bobbed, aching to be touched.

Jake’s newness to the gay scene had him acting more like a teenager testing the waters before taking the plunge. He’d only fucked a guy once. And while he enjoyed it, several beers and the guy’s insistence had lowered his guard.

With the truck’s cabin growing too warm, he quickly rolled down the window and grabbed his dick again. Thoughts of the three dudes he sat across from in last week’s circle jerk came to mind: them all pulling their puds, shirtless and with jeans slightly pulled down along their thighs. One guy even tried to kiss Jake, but he refused. Sitting around with a bunch of supposedly straight guys jerking off during halftime—while sexy as fuck—wasn’t the romance a kiss required. Instead, Jake grabbed him by the nape of the neck, shoved his face down on his dick and blew a load in his mouth. The two other men cheered and shot wads all over their own chests.

In quick jerks, Jake’s hand became a blur. “SHIT! I can’t take it!” His cock sprayed its juice onto his T-shirt. He pulled at the cotton in a futile attempt to catch the bursts. “Oh, fuck. Oh, God, yeah,” he muttered, with a quiver in his voice. “It...feels...so fucking...good.” He held his breath, eyes closed, while seven to eight spurts covered the landscaping logo on his chest, as well as a shot to the face and under the brim of his cap.

In a shiver, he stopped. He looked behind him to make sure he hadn’t hit the window like he had the other day. Explaining a splatter on the glass proved embarrassing when picking a guy up at the club.

Jake peeled off his shirt and wiped his face, hat, and the mess that had puddled in his pubes. He started the truck, balled up the shirt and threw it to the floor.

W
ith a white towel wrapped around his waist, Jake’s bare feet slapped against the hardwood of the upstairs hallway.

“Bye, Jake!” Jocelyn yelled, from the bottom of the stairs.

He walked past his bedroom and leaned over the banister. “See ya, kid. Have a good day.”

Jocelyn, with her long, blonde hair pinned up, smiled. “You too. Tell Juan I said hello.” Jocelyn had a bit of a soft spot for immigrant workers, and Jake’s crew consisted of plenty.

“Will do.”

When he got to his bedroom, Skip, Jake’s stepbrother, finished a pushup and rolled onto his back. “Well, well, well,” Skip said, “look who’s doing the walk of shame.” He leaned up on his elbows. Sweat dripped down his chest, and he exhaled. “Where were you last night?”

Jake opened the dresser drawer on his side of the room. “None of your business.” He took out a clean pair of underwear.

“Sor-ry,” Skip said, extending the syllables in a singsong voice.

Stepping into his briefs, Jake slid them up under his bath towel. “Nothing to be sorry about.” He removed the cloth and threw it on his bed.

“Your mother drank herself silly worried—”

Jake rolled his eyes. “I heard.” He turned around and folded his arms across his chest. “And
your
dad...where was he?”

Skip pulled himself up onto his unmade twin bed. “Tuesday night card game with the boys. You know.”

Jake turned around and opened his bottom drawer for a pair of jeans. “Of course. I forgot.”

“You should probably call her next time.”

“Since when are you the moral one?” Jake asked, looking over his shoulder.

Skip held out his hands, palms forward. “At ease, soldier...at ease.” Since Skip’s return from Afghanistan, he would bandy about military phrases to the family like the lieutenant in the Army he’d wished he had been.

After pulling out a pair of Levi’s, Jake kicked his drawer closed. “Sorry, Skip. I just had a long night, and I’m late for work.” Jake resented many things about his stepbrother—the biggest sharing his room. When his mother remarried, Skip had been overseas, but on his return last spring, the household dynamics changed. Jake’s privacy vanished, yet hastened his saving for an apartment.