While I was thinking of Jake’s package, Jake himself climbed back down the ladder and took a swig from a canteen he’d placed near a pile of roofing supplies. I called him over.

“You’re look hot and tired, Jake,” I said. “Why don’t you take a breather and do a few laps in the pool? That’s sure to cool you off and relieve those aching muscles.” And quite nice muscles too, I thought to myself.

“No swimming suit,” he said, as he greedily eyed the pool.

“No problem,” I said. “No one can see the pool, and it’s not like we hadn’t gotten acquainted yet.”

“Yep,” he responded, with a wink. “And a very nice acquaintance it was.”

“So, go ahead and jump in,” I said. “When you’re cooled off, you can stretch out on the side of the pool over there, and maybe I’ll massage some of those tight muscles for you. That should make the rest of the roofing go a lot faster.”

Jake didn’t need another invitation to do just that. He stripped off his pants, and I got the first good look at his basket. I marveled that I had been able to take that rod in. It didn’t look so long tumescent, but I’d gotten some idea of the extraordinary length when engorged while he was doing me. What was so shocking, however, was how fat it was. The image of a sausage hanging in a meat store window proved to be quite apt. Beyond that, he had one of those solid, Latin figures that were thickish but could not be called fat. And the muscles that he worked with—in addition to his prick, of course, which I’m sure got a good workout—were bulgy and sharply defined. He probably could have held his own in a Mr. Universe contest.

Jake dove neatly into the pool, did a few laps, and then pulled himself up out of the pool with the strength of his arms at the three and a half-foot depth end and stretched out on the pavement on his belly. His arm dangled down into the water and he gave me a languid look that said he might just drift off to napping.

We couldn’t have that, though—at least not yet. I stood, briskly strode to the side of the pool, dove in, and surfaced beside him. I then began to expertly massage his back, neck, arm, leg, and butt muscles, which caused him to give little groans of appreciation. Yes, I now could see that I had been wrong to give all of my attention to the younger roofer when they had arrived. I slapped his butt.

“Turn over, sport, and let me at some of those other muscles.”

He turned over, as I directed, and I could see he had a half erection already—and that, indeed, he picked up considerable length when he was engorged. I started at his head, massaging his temples, scalp, and the muscles at the side of neck until he started to sigh with pleasure.

“See, I said,” there are more ways than one to release tension.”

“You do it your way, and I’ll do it my way,” he murmured with his eyes closed.

My hands went to his chest muscles and I began to knead those. Down his rib cage on both sides, and he flinched when I got to his waist.

“Oh, a little ticklish, are we?”