Blake Hart
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The Repairman
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 20:00:05 +0000 UTCHey everyone! This was originally shared on my subreddit, r/TheGayErotica, but I thought I’d repost it here too. I’ve also put together a new collection featuring a couple of my standalone stories — plus there’s a brand-new one included. Hope you’ll check it out!
Everyone in this story is 18+
It was just a few days after I had moved out from my parents. I was 19 and clueless about how to do most things. So when my washer stopped working, I called the first repairman I could find.
The moment I opened the door, I knew I was in trouble. He was tall, muscular, and looked to be in his late 20s, with a rugged charm that practically screamed, I work with my hands. His tool belt hung low on his hips, and his shirt clung to his body like it had been tailored just for this moment. A hint of chest hair peeked out from the collar, adding to his rugged appeal. Below his name tag, which read Dean, I couldn’t help but notice his substantial bulge.
He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead—it made sense, considering I lived on the fifth floor with no elevator. “You called for some help?” he asked, his voice deep and masculine.
I stepped aside to let him in, trying not to stare as he walked past me. “Yeah, the washing machine. It’s not draining.”
He crouched in front of the machine, giving me a perfect view of his broad back and the way his jeans stretched over his ass. I swallowed hard, leaning against the counter for support. This was going to be torture.
“I forgot my toolbox in the car,” he said, glancing back at me with a smirk that said he’d noticed my staring. “I can grab it, or if you’ve got a wrench, that’ll do.”
“Wench?” I asked, confused. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound.
“No, a wrench. It’s a metal tool with a long handle. One end has a part that looks like a mouth to grab bolts or nuts.”
My brain short-circuited at the mention of nuts, but I managed to piece together what he meant. I went to the little toolbox my mom had left me, insisting I’d need it now that I was “independent.” I barely knew what a hammer was, let alone a wrench, but I found what I hoped was the right tool and handed it to him with my best puppy-dog eyes.
“That’s it. You learn fast,” Dean said with a chuckle. “I could use an assistant like you.”
I chuckled at his obvious joke, but the thought of him actually teaching me a thing or two lingered, sending a flush to my cheeks. As I handed him the wrench, our fingers brushed. The spark was immediate—like static electricity, but far warmer. His eyes met mine, holding my gaze just a moment too long. For a brief second, I couldn’t breathe, caught in the intensity of his stare. Then, with a faint smirk, he turned back to the machine, leaving the air between us thick with something unspoken.
After a few minutes, he straightened up, towering over me as he wiped his hands on a rag. The rhythmic hum of the machine behind him confirmed it was back in working order. “All fixed,” he said, his deep voice warm and steady, though his eyes lingered on mine, searching. His lips curled into a faint, teasing smile, and then he shifted slightly, his hand dropping to adjust himself—subtle, but unmistakable. “Anything else you need?”
I think I knew what he was asking, and I wasn’t going to pretend I didn’t. “Actually,” I said, stepping closer, “I think there’s one more thing.”
Before I could lose my nerve, I kissed him. He responded instantly, his rough hands gripping my waist as he pushed me back against the counter. His lips were firm, insistent, and I could feel the scratch of his scruff on my chin as his tongue parted my mouth with ease. My hands roamed over his chest, tracing the solid contours beneath his shirt.
I nodded, already fumbling with his tool belt. He smirked and helped, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy clink. As I unzipped his jeans, the thick bulge behind the fabric grew even more obvious. When I freed his cock, it sprang out—thick, veined, and already glistening with precum at the tip. His coarse, dark pubes framed it perfectly, the faint musky scent making my mouth water.
I wrapped my hand around the base, marveling at its weight and warmth as I stroked him slowly. My other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently in my palm, feeling their fullness. Dean groaned low in his throat, his hand brushing the back of my head as he watched me work. Precum dripped down his length, slicking my fingers as I stroked him harder, earning another groan.
He leaned down slightly, his voice rough and commanding. “Take it in your mouth. Go on.”
Dean groaned, his hand tangling in my hair as I worked him, guiding my movements with a gentle but firm grip. My tongue traced every vein along his length, my lips sliding down his shaft all the way to his heavy balls before gliding back up to the swollen, leaking tip. The taste of his precum lingered on my tongue as I bobbed up and down, taking him deeper each time.
He started to buck his hips, his cock brushing the back of my throat with every thrust, and the sounds he made—low, guttural groans—sent a shiver through me. “Fuck, you’re good at this,” he muttered, his voice tight and rough with need.
After a while, he pulled me up, lifting me onto the counter with ease, his strength leaving me breathless. "Can I fuck you?" he asked, his voice low and rough. I didn’t hesitate, nodding and moaning, shamelessly needy. He smirked, clearly pleased, and grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the counter, pouring some onto his cock, slicking it up with deliberate strokes.
My pants were gone in seconds, and then I felt the pressure of his thick, meaty head pressing against me. Even just his tip made my hole feel stretched to its limit, and as he pushed in slowly, I couldn’t stop the cry that escaped my lips. He paused, gripping my hips firmly, his thumbs pressing soothing circles into my skin as he let me adjust.
His lips found mine, the kiss surprisingly soft and patient, grounding me as I caught my breath. The combination of his careful movements and steady grip left me feeling safe, even as I braced for the overwhelming fullness to come.
As he finally buried what had to be at least eight thick inches of repairman meat, I couldn’t help but moan, loud and desperate, like I was his bitch. He began thrusting slowly at first, careful and deliberate, but as I urged him on, the initial discomfort faded into a mounting pleasure with each thrust. My body adjusted, surrendering completely. I needed this—I needed him.
“Fuck me, Daddy, come on!” I cried out, my voice shamelessly needy. The cabinet behind me rattled with each thrust, but I didn’t care. All I could focus on was the way he filled me, the deep, guttural groans that escaped him as he lost himself in me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, my nails digging into his back.
Dean kissed me hard, then broke away, lifting me effortlessly and flipping me onto my stomach on the counter. His hands spread my cheeks as he thrust back into me from behind, his cock sliding in effortlessly, reigniting the overwhelming sensation of fullness. He fucked me like I was made for this, his pace unrelenting, the sound of his hips slapping against my ass filling the room. A sharp smack landed on my cheek, and I gasped in pleasure.
“Yes! Spank me—just like that,” I groaned, the words spilling out before I could stop them.
My balls began to tighten, the pressure building with every deep thrust. I reached for my cock, stroking it furiously as he drove me to the edge. The orgasm hit me like a freight train, my cum shooting across the cabinet in thick, hot streaks, dripping down the wood and pooling on the floor. My cries of release mixed with his low, guttural groans.
Dean wasn’t far behind. His thrusts grew erratic, and with a final deep push, he groaned, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck! I’m filling you up with my man milk.” I felt his warmth spilling inside me, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself, the sensation leaving me trembling. His words almost made me laugh, but something about his rugged charm made it work.
He stayed buried inside me for a moment, our breathing ragged as we came down from the high. His forehead rested against my shoulder, his weight grounding me. Then, slowly, he pulled back, a grin spreading across his face as he glanced at the mess I’d made.
Dean pressed a soft kiss to my neck, his earlier roughness replaced with something gentler. “If you ever need something repaired—or just a good plowing—call me. It’s on the house.” He chuckled as he tucked himself back into his jeans, leaving me breathless and already thinking about next time.
Comments
Devin
Can I please get the phone number for the repair man? I have some pipes in my kitchen and a hole in the bedroom that need to be worked on.
