Realizing Potential in a Service Project 01

Realizing Potential in a Service Project 01

Todd spends a summer on a church project

This story is set in Central America and is more or less contemporary. All characters involved in sexual activity are over 18. Copyright, Brunosden, 2024.

Hi! I'm Todd Bridges. This story was originally written several years ago to meet the requirements of a creative writing assignment in college. A few weeks ago, I found it, aging in the bottom of a file, and decided to edit it, to prepare it for a different forum, and to bring it more or less up to date.

Mom and Dad had been after me for over a year to get engaged in some "human service" activities that would pad my college application. I thought that I had pretty much everything going for me anyway and didn't pay much attention. I had just graduated from a good public high school in Connecticut with B+ grades and planned to take a gap year (essentially doing nothing except maybe a little travel) after which I would apply to college--unlike most of my classmates who were following right on through. I knew that I had qualified for State, and that was enough for me.

They had convinced me otherwise--they would cut off my allowance unless I found something "worthwhile" to do for the summer--and enrolled in a "fifth year" at a nearby prep school where I would shine. Whether I liked it or not, they were going to package me for a selective college.

So I was off to El Salvador with a church group to build classrooms in the jungle before starting at The Chase School in September. I knew nothing about the project or the people volunteering to work. It wasn't sponsored by our church. Nor did I know what my curriculum would look like in the fall, but I did know that I would have one more year of eligibility and could play soccer at Chase, presumably on the varsity, given my age and proven athletic ability. But, first I had to get through the summer. It wasn't an adventure; it was a trial.

We left from Hartford, via Miami, for Central America at the beginning of July--presumably before the intense rainy season which typically started in mid-August. There were twenty of us, half boys, half girls and two chaperone-counselors. I didn't know any of them, and most appeared to be enthusiastic nerds a year or two younger than I, although a few were probably in my situation--doing reluctant penance for goofing off and/or resume padding. One or two might have been ministers-in-training.

Our mission: build a four room, eight class schoolhouse working alongside locals using materials that our churches had donated.

I turned 19 a few months ago, about 5-11, blonde and blue--both my own color, not through the contacts that I wear (eyes) or any dye (hair). About 165, lightly muscled. I'm really not a nerd, although I do okay academically without much effort. If I were motivated, I'm pretty sure I could star. I was late to mature, and like so many of my classmates, I'm pretty asexual and passive. Most of my dates have been group dates--often because the 'rents expected us to do prom etc., etc. I know that I'm attractive to girls, but I haven't really been willing to put out the effort to pursue those opportunities. I'm a virgin except to my palm--and the stimulus is usually lap top porn, mostly vanilla hetero, although occasionally bi or gay. Based on the locker room, I'd guess I was a little bigger than most, uncut and a grower. It doesn't seem to make much difference to me, although I guess I like the stares I often get.

In a word, I'm average. In another word, I'm lazy--just ask Mom. And in another final word, a mushroom. I really like just sleeping and dreaming in the dark. (I only wish I had the magic kind that would take me on various exotic trips.) I'm your typical entitled kid with an attitude.

The flight arrived on time at a modern tropical airport. We each collected the duffel we were allowed and headed for the ancient school bus that would take us to the village up up from the plain about halfway into the mountains, two hours from the city. It was late afternoon when we arrived and were greeted by enthusiastic "hosts." A table of fruit, filled tortillas and soup had been set up for us, and we were invited to eat while accommodations were sorted. The girls were going to be housed in a dormitory (which our church had built the previous year), but the guys were allocated among the various host families--ten that had homes with roofs and a son or two who could share a room with an American stranger for six weeks.

I noticed one guy, probably in his 20s, scoping out the group of young men who were going to be his "helpers" during the next six weeks, perhaps doing the mental calculations as to which of us were going to be the most helpful. Within minutes, we were assigned to our hosts, and all knew our rudimentary Spanish was going to be a challenge. The local language was a mixture of Spanish and native patois that was nearly unintelligible to us.

My host family was obviously poor. Their home, built of timbers with a palm-leaf roof, contained three small rooms--one all purpose (the kitchen being outside), one for the parents and one for me--and Marco. He was older, maybe 25, and was a teacher, working at a local eco-park running the zip line on weekends and when called. (He had been the guy scoping us all out before.) It turned out he wasn't their son, but the orphaned son of Pedro's brother who had been killed in a freak mining accident many years before. Pedro and Miriam, being childless had taken him in. He never left--but it was pretty clear that he was the man of the house. Marco was going to be the co-superintendent of our project. He spoke some English--probably because of the eco-park experience, but Pedro and Miriam spoke almost none and seemed more like male and female servants than parents.

Marco was my height, but characteristically much darker, with thick black straight hair, a ruddy complexion, thick lips and dark brown eyes. He was wearing an ancient Ras (psychedelic Marley) tee, probably an antique of substantial value in the States, cut-off, nearly-white jean shorts (with an impressive package whiskered into the crotch) and leather sandals. His cut abs peaked out below the short tee when he moved. He seemed friendly and open, muscular and mature. He outweighed me by maybe 30 to 40 pounds, all muscle. There was no question that he was an alpha dude, accustomed to taking the best for himself. He introduced himself as I lifted my duffel. He gripped my shoulder with an iron fist, and we headed out to his place. We would begin our project early the next morning.

The house, a short walk away down the only paved street in the village, was spotlessly clean, with window openings, but not windows, small and not air-conditioned, of course. Marco must have seen my eyes when we approached. "Don't worry, amigo. The mountain air cools quickly when the sun goes down--and we do have lots of nice clean well-water--although it's outside the house. And electricity--unless the company imposes one of their regular rolling blackouts. You're lucky. This is one of the nicer places." And, then grinning mysteriously at me, "And I'm certainly going to be the best host you could ask for. You won't want to go home." The words and the grin sent a chill up my spine, and quite unusually for me, a blast of blood into my dick. I realized I was attracted to this virile hunk standing near me. I even got a whiff of his manly aroma--and it wasn't bad. What the fuck was wrong with me?

It was already late, but Miriam insisted that we eat one of the sandwiches she had made--using "American bread," not tortillas. Pedro went to a cooling tub and withdrew a large bottle of home brew--which he poured into three glasses--handing the largest to Marco. In broken English, he said, "Welcome, Todd, to our home. Thank you for helping us to build our school." Then he approached and hugged me. Miriam did the same. And so did Marco. Marco held a little longer than required and was careful to thrust his hips into me when he did. Then he draped his arm around my shoulder, pointed to the duffel and walked us into his room.

It was small--large enough for a mattress on a pallet (thin, of straw, probably a little larger than a twin), a "closet"--an alcove with no door, but a colorful serape drape in front, and a small chest. The space left was barely enough for the two of us to stand. This was going to be a very friendly arrangement. And Marco seemed to fill all of it with his masculinity.

"Now we shower. I'll show you the way." Just outside, near the kitchen was a stall, made of slim branches woven together. Above the stall was a large translucent plastic cistern--where the sun heated pumped water throughout the day. We walked behind the screen which separated the shower from the kitchen. Marco stripped as I turned away from him for modesty and followed. Marco stepped into the stall and waited. "We do this together to save the hot water. Quick rinse. Then soap. Then rinse again."

My eyes rose to take him all in as I stepped in. He was like a model for Gold's Gym. Thick ropey neck. Wide shoulders. Slab pecs. Eight-pac. Thick thighs. And the dick was nicely rainbow-ed over heavy ball sacs. He saw me looking. "Yeah, I've got native blood, so my only hair is on my head and around my cock. I never need to shave." I was immediately conscious of the light peach fuzz that covered most of my legs and chest. And the contrast in our skin color--we were almost of a different race thanks to his time in the sun. "I guess you play futbol? The tanned lower legs and arms tell the story."

"Yeah, I'm a left wing."

"So am I, extremo--either side. They say I'm the best on our team at setting up a play. We have a village team. We'll play before you get away, I'm sure." (Why did I assume that every statement had more than one meaning? Was I really that horny?)

By then we were both wet. Marco turned off the rain shower and began to soap up. I followed. "Do my back, amigo. It's a rare pleasure." (Did he mean for him or me?) He turned and I palmed the soap, massaging it over his strong back muscles. Then I knelt and did his legs and thighs. His cock brushed my cheek as I did so, and I jumped back. He turned, bent over and pulled his glutes apart so that his pinky rim was right in my face--and so I soaped the cleft as well, feeling him push into my fingers as I did so. "That feels so good. Now I do you." I turned and he duplicated my procedure, before batting my legs apart to finish up. Several times he brushed the balls with the back of his hand. Then he stood, pulled me into him swept my chest with the soap and fisted my shaft, pulling the hood down to clean inside. Throughout all, I was silent, but darkening--and stiffening.

I knew nothing about Marco or his sexual preferences. But, I already expected that he was definitely setting me up for some fun. He backed off, opened the shower bladder, and we rinsed before dressing in clean clothes--tees and sleep shorts. By then, it was darkening. "We are early to bed here. The day begins at dawn. We'll work until just after mid-day. Then eat and relax. A few more hours just before dinner. It's our way, and it seems to work--even for you Norteamericanos."

We said goodnights to Pedro and Miriam--who were already ready to retire and headed in. "I'll sleep out here if you are uncomfortable." The "sofa" which resembled his bed, but was covered in woolen blankets didn't look all that comfortable. I could tell he was teasing, not serious. He was holding his crotch fairly obviously as he spoke.

"I can't take your bed, Marco. We both need to sleep well. I think tomorrow is our first big day--and we're told we'll be digging and laying block for the foundation."

"I think I can make this work for both of us." He walked into the room, stripped and relaxed onto the pallet facing me, his soft dick hanging loosely. I climbed in. He hadn't left much room. There was no way my ass wasn't going to be in in contact with his cock--and even then it was going to be tight. But, I relaxed and was soon asleep.

I awakened later. It was chilly and Marco had pulled a light cotton cover over us, but I was still cold. I think he sensed the problem--or the opportunity. He had spooned me into his gut, wrapping me with his warm body and powerful arms. It felt embryonic rather than frightening. I just relaxed into him, felt his hardness on my back and was soon asleep. I could almost feel the warmth of his radiating smile as he pulled me in. It felt really good to be held by someone--particularly one as hunky as this guy. That was a totally new feeling for me.

In the morning, we had moved just a little. His hard cock was now firmly entrenched between my thighs and my dick, equally hard, was gripped by his calloused hands. I sensed, from his breathing and the throbbing of his cock that he was awake and waiting for my move. I really had no choice. I had to take care of that wood. I squeezed my thighs, and taking the cue, he started to pump--while his hand began to stroke. It took only a minute or two. We both gave up our spunk at the same time. He nipped my nape--I'm sure leaving a mark. Was he branding me? Then, we rose without a word. He grabbed a cloth, dipped it into a basin on the chest and washed us both down. As he finished, he took my cock and balls in his large hand and squeezed, seeming to establish possession. Then we dressed and were handed a couple of sugared tortillas each as we left for the jobsite. "Miriam will bring us something more in a few hours, Todd. Let's go to work."

We arrived at the site only minutes after the sun crossed the crest of the nearby mountain range. It was already buzzing. The site had been "cleared"--large and small stones had created a more or less continuous fence around the perimeter which looked to be about the size of a football field. The ground was level and stakes with yellow strings demarcated the simple structures--four buildings of two classrooms each at the corners of a courtyard with porticos between them. Two of the buildings were nearly complete--roofed and windowed--presumably last summer's project. Our job was obviously to finish the next two.

Each building had a "foreman"-- Marco was the manager of the building to which I was assigned, and a woman managed the other. But, he seemed to be in charge of everything. Shovels and picks were distributed and all of us--women and men, and even some of the village's children began to dig the trenches. The goal was to complete the trenches and fill them with stones from the surrounding perimeter wall by the end of the week. The ground was hard, but not rocky and we made good progress. By the end of the day, we had cut half the trenches and rocks were being carried to the edge by everyone in the village. The locals made up about half of us, but they did twice the work.

As predicted, we had broken around 1p.m. and picnicked under the shady trees before napping for another hour. Then we completed the work for the day and headed home. The shower routine was the same--although this time Marco was much more aggressive in his massaging of my "sore muscles"--particularly the one hanging between my legs and the circular one shielded by my ass cheeks. There was no question that a beefy finger penetrated and "looked around." That was an experience I had only twice before had in a doctor's office. But, I doubted Marco was licensed.

Once again, we had tortillas filled with beans, rice, squash and some minced meat--probably pork. And again, Pedro pulled out a large bottle of his home-brew. Then we said our goodnights and headed in to his room. We had not exchanged any words about what we were doing. Marco seemed to assume that if he tried something, and I didn't complain, he would take that step and the next. I was wrong--he wasn't trying me out; he was acting his normal self.

Pointing to my semi in the knit sleep shorts, he whispered, "Somehow, I think you like me, boy." He sat on the edge of the bed, spread his legs and dropped the cover on the hard floor. I understood the cue and knelt before him. By then he was rigid and I got a good look at this equipment. He was long, longer than two of my fists with the head still sticking out. He was thick--my fingers barely touched. And he was dark and uncut--the head a deep glistening Indian red as the hood rolled back. It was quite a specimen. I moved in--or rather he pulled me in. His cockhead brushed my lips. I placed my hands on his thighs to balance as he pushed forward, holding the back of my head. Finally, I took the head between my lips, using them to push away the hood as my tongue began to taste the man of him. It was a first for me, but apparently I was a natural. Soon, he took one of my hands and moved it to his sacs. I could barely hold both--and they were red hot and totally boiling inside. I bobbled them in my palm. So his shaft poked much more deeply inside. I choked, but he pulled back, let me take a breath, and pushed the fat head back inside filling me completely. I swirled the tongue and got into a rhythm of stroking by hand, swishing by tongue and rolling the balls in their sacks between my fingers. He was obviously enjoying it as his hands held my head in place while his hips launched him into a deep face fuck, as he muttered over and over, in Spanish, I think, good boy, good whore.

It took only a few minutes. He tapped my head to warn, but I knew what was cuming, and whether or not I wanted to taste my first, it was inevitable. One of his hands was holding me firmly in place. He pulled back slightly, exploded and filled my mouth and my throat with his spunk until it overflowed onto my cheeks. Then he quickly drew me into his lap, hugged me like a babe to his chest and shared the cream with a deep soul-searching kiss--the first time a man other than my Dad or Granddad had ever kissed me on the lips.

He reached down and felt my rigid hardness. I was throbbing with the pressure of the need to cum. He stroked a few times. And then, as I was about to spout, he ringed the base of the shaft with two fingers, moved his palm below my balls and squeezed, hard, aborting my orgasm. Then, without another word, he released me, lay back on the pallet and pulled me into his spoon. I was at the edge, but realized he was going to run this show. His hand went to hold my cock. I thought he was going to finish what he had started. But no, his hand gripped it all and froze--presumably to keep me from touching it or using the bedding to orgasm. He immobilized me, pulling me tightly into him. I was torn, but loved having his dick in my cleft and his hand on my shaft. I was more aroused than I had ever been in my life, and I couldn't do a thing about it. And I also realized that I was in someone else's control. It was a different kind of control from a parent or a teacher. It was physical and total.

Perhaps ten minutes later, he whispered, "You Norteamericanos are always so much in a hurry, so anxious. One of the lessons I'm going to teach you these weeks is to deny yourself and wait. It's one of the signs of maturity. It will be much better then. I promise. At least for me. You are going to learn to be a real man's boy. My boy. Now go to sleep like a nice little boy and dream of all the things your master has in store for you."

The second morning was like the first. He humped my ass with his cock and spewed cum all over me--as his massive hands held my shaft immobile and unrelieved. "Maybe tonight, boy, if you're good. I don't want to see you touch yourself today--not even when you use the latrine--just open up and let the little guy rip. No one touches that dick but me, understand?" (Where did "little guy" come from? Fuck, I was packing and I knew it. He might be a little bigger. Well maybe a lot bigger. I wanted to please him, to make him feel good, to handle me. But...... And where the fuck were these thoughts coming from? I wasn't the slightest gay.)