Chapter 1
LON STEPPED under the streaming hot water and sighed as what seemed to be a month’s worth of red dust and a layer of mud washed away down the drain. With languid movements he soaped his large, hairy body and watched as the water ran from a reddish brown to an opaque white. He scrubbed and washed all the little nooks and crannies where that fucking Pilbara dust would get to and anticipated the softness of his bed.
Mining in the Pilbara region of Western Australia meant long hours in the worst fucking conditions you could imagine—searing heat, insects attacking you, boring, repetitive work, and a general lack of comfort—for an absolute fortune in salary. Men (and the few women brave and stupid enough) worked twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. Lon was part of the large FIFO crowd—fly-in, fly-out. The mining companies flew planeloads of employees up to the mines for their shifts, accommodated them for the duration in tiny rooms called dongas, then flew them home again. Lon was on a four-on-two-off rotation, which equated to twenty-eight days of twelve-hour shifts without a break, then a turnaround of fourteen days to sit on his arse and do nothing while twiddling his thumbs, just waiting for the day he flew back again.
At least the weather was better in Perth than in Newman, where the mine was.
And it wasn’t like anyone was waiting for him. Lon had no family to meet him each time he landed at the airport. No wife, no kids—no boyfriend. He wondered what it would be like to have a boyfriend waiting for him, but that thought soon morphed into the thought of what would a boyfriend of his look like? Lon took them any way they came—big, small, needy, greedy, hairy, smooth, old, young, masculine, feminine. You name it, he’d done it. All they really needed was…. Well, you know.
He rinsed his hair and scrubbed at his full beard. Shaving was a waste of time at the mines, so he grew one out every rotation. The next step in his cleansing routine was to step up to the mirrors and trim his beard down, then shave everything but a short goatee so that he wouldn’t scare the little old ladies who lived in the van next to him.
The water was still running hot, and Lon considered taking care of the erection that had sprung to full tilt while he was showering. He fingered his heavy sack but sighed and turned off the water instead. If he came while he was in the shower, he was liable to fall asleep, and that would cause a large problem. Trying to carry his muscular frame out of the small cubicle of a caravan park shower would require some beefy-fireman help. On second thought….
He grinned to himself as he toweled off. His erection wasn’t going anywhere soon, and any guy who was in the shower rooms at this time of night would just have to put up with the sight of his large cock saying hello. It was late—his flight was delayed and didn’t land at Perth Airport until after 10:30 p.m. Most of the caravanning and camping community had retired for the night, since the grounds had a noise rule that kicked in at ten o’clock.
Lon opened the door and stepped out to the basins, naked and unashamed. He was big all over—from his height to his chest to his cock. Mama made this boy extra-large. His chest was wide and shaped from the days he spent in the gym while on downtime. It matched the impressive girth of his muscled thighs. He was covered with a healthy pelt that had some men drooling and wanting him to be their leather daddy. He just shook his head at them. He didn’t do that sort of shit. If you wanted someone to boss you around and tell you what to do, then go visit your parents.
He started for half a second as he registered a second body in the shower rooms. A light-haired, lanky lad was leaning against the far basin, staring intently at himself in the mirror. They made eye contact with each other for a moment through the reflecting surface before Lon saw the guy’s eyes drop to check out what Lon usually kept covered. Bright blue eyes widened—either in appreciation or fear—and a cute mouth fell open as the guy stared at Lon’s gear.
Lon had no time for polite modesty. He was tired, exhausted, and nearly completely clean. He threw his dirty mining uniform on the ground, slung his wet towel over his shoulder, and dumped his bag full of toiletries on the shelf above the basin. He needed to shave. Then he would throw the towel around his waist and walk the three vans to his home. He reckoned it was about four steps to his bed once in his van, and it would take less than two minutes to be asleep. None of that required clothing.
The electric trimmer slotted neatly into the power point above the basin. He was ready to start on his beard when he realized the other person in the room was still staring.
The kid was probably legal age—just. That in-between age where people didn’t know whether to call you a boy or a man. His hair was wheat colored and styled with some sort of gel to make it stand up straight from his skull, then flop artfully to the side. He hadn’t moved from the basin apart from turning his head so he could stare at Lon, four basins up—well, stare at one particular part of Lon.