Posted Fri Oct 2, 2015 | 337 Words | Tagged story workie

I hated living in a new block of flats. I also had to be directly above builders who would start at 8am until 5pm extending the building for a few more rooms or something. There wasn’t much I could do apart from showing my disappointment in foul faces at them.

One morning I did this and I think I pushed my luck, one of the builders who had the largest electric screwdriver I’d ever seen pulled me into the space they were building, punched me in the nose and then spat at me. Horrifyingly I had heard something break and he had managed to spit right into my mouth.

Then when I tried to leave and get to work in the state I was, I was frozen to the ground. I couldn’t move and all I could taste in my mouth was the nasty taste of his spit. He then ripped my expensive shirt off my body, and I was sure he managed to pull at least a button out which would be awful to replace or fix.

He replaced it with his, rather dirty, hi-viz jacket which looked rather big for me. He threw his own shirt away to reveal some tacky tattoos. He then rubbed his hand over my exposed stomach area. His hand was rather rough and I’m sure he rubbed something in.

“Gonna be a good fukin workie you are”

Then he put his helmet on me. The smell from this all was really astonishingly bad, but I was starting to like it. I looked back at him and started to admire the shaved head and his rough looks.

Seemingly happy with what he had done, he let me change into some trackies and then again rubbed something in around my stomach. I definitely enjoyed it this time.

He put me to work straight away, teasing me more and more, making me smell more and more. Wasn’t long before I was like him with some nice as fuck tattoos and looking propa rugged.