The Alpha Sparky

By Jack Brighton

An uncompromising look at the Alpha/fag relationship, set on a construction site over the course of a week, and told with a Jack Brighton twist...
Archie Murphy has just left school and has landed a job on a construction site for the summer before going to university. On his first day he meets Rory, another student who is a year older and a lot more experienced when it comes to men. Rory is in a sort of relationship with the sparky (electrician) he's assisting. On the surface it appears like a typical Alpha/fag situation, and Archie is to be trained up over the course of a week to become Gus's second fag. But all is not as it appears!
Archie discovers manipulation - Rory is apparently pulling the strings. This is good in a way as the Alpha animal is being controlled to provide what the boys are after. But as the week moves on to it's big climax at the end where Archie is to be spectacularly popped, doubts creep in on several fronts. Will Gus come through? Does Archie really want him to? Who is actually in control? Is anyone?
Whatever! For Archie it's an amazing adventure. A week of the most incredible sex with two of the hottest men on the planet. Does it really matter who is in control when you are having so much fun?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Firm Hand Books
• Release date: Dec 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310369179

Jack Brighton

Jack Brighton is a British author who specialises in M/M erotica - most of which, but by no means all, falls into the category of BDSM - a way of life that he has rich experience of. There are romantic overtones in some of his work, but you tend to get what it says on the label. All the books fall under the banner 'Flaming Hot Gay BDSM' or 'Flaming Hot Gay Erotica', so don't expect anything else. But do expect them to be flaming hot, with plenty of storyline and character development. A dry sense of humour also features, and a very vivid imagination. He is best known for his 'Tales from The Wild Side' series, where that imagination runs riot.Jack was brought up in a mining community in the west of Scotland, took his degree at Stirling, did a year's post- graduate in Edinburgh, then moved south to London, where he taught for a few years before moving into the finance sector, based in The City. Many of his stories draw on this background - as a gay man trying to find himself in what was more often than not a hostile environment.Having given up the rat race, Jack became a full time writer in 2010. He now lives in Brighton with his long term partner.Jack has also written mainstream fiction under the pen name J. K. Brighton.

Book preview

The Alpha Sparky

(Flaming Hot Gay BDSM)

By Jack Brighton

Copyright Jack Brighton, December 2013

Published by Firm Hand Books at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Please note: this is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is for sale to adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store the material where it cannot be accessed by minors.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. As a piece of erotic fantasy where licence can be taken, certain scenes involve unprotected sex.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Jack Brighton’s Flaming Hot Gay BDSM Collection

Tales from The Wild Side Extract – Welcome to The Wild Side

HisNemesis Trilogy Extract – His Nemesis

The Nabster SeriesExtract – Nabbed!

OtherBDSM Books Extract – The Devil’s Mark

Jack Brighton’s Flaming Hot Gay Erotica Collection

Erotica Books Extract –Private Education

About the Author

Chapter 1

So, you’re Jock Murphy’s boy.

Yeah, that’s right, Archie’s the name, I answered, mustering as much confidence as I could. This was me reporting for my first day at work, and I have to say, confidence was in short supply. To be honest, I was quaking in my steel capped boots.

But then what would you expect. This was a building site for goodness sake, and I wasn’t exactly the rough and ready type who was accustomed to manual labour. I was eighteen years old and recently left school, where if the truth be told, I’d been a bit of a swat. This was the last place I should have been employed, but then beggars can’t be choosers. I desperately needed a summer job before going to university in the autumn, but after a month of searching nothing had turned up, until Dad managed to wangle me this - the foreman being an old friend who was called upon to do a favour.

The foreman in question didn’t look overly impressed as he inspected what he’d been landed with, starting at the grimy wooden floor where I stood and slowly moving upwards. The sturdy boots were fine, obligatory on a building site where things have a habit of falling on your feet. The old pair of baggy jeans was sensible as well, as was the extra large tee-shirt that would be more than sufficient in the summer heat we were enjoying. The baseball cap would be replaced by a hard hat to complete the outfit, so I would end up ticking every box in the fashion department. But it wasn’t my clothing that was the issue – it was what it was covering! Dad had obviously exaggerated my worth on the big and beefy stakes. I’m reasonably big at five feet eleven; and pretty fit, because as well as being a boffin who normally gets A’s across the board, I’m also quite good at sport – tennis being my main thing. But I’m still ‘filling out’, as Dad would say, more of a boy than a man at present, so there’s no way I could claim to be a bit of a hunk and a natural for the job of labouring on a building site.

Are you sure you’re up for this? the foreman dubiously enquired. His name was Walter Fairbairn, so Dad had informed me. Watty to his friends, and Mr. Fairbairn to me until I was told any different - respect being something my father had ingrained in me from an early age.

I’ve no experience, I told him. But then Dad would have mentioned that... at least I hope he did. I was given a brief nod and a sort of grunt which I took to be a yes. Then eyebrows were raised, which in this new language I was learning was interpreted as encouragement for me to continue and answer the question properly. But I’m up for giving it a go, I assured Mr. Fairbairn. I’m stronger than you might think, and not afraid of hard work.

Aye... so Jock said. But what about the men? he asked.

I gulped for sure, probably gawped at him, and had this horrible feeling my cheeks were turning scarlet. I realised there and then that I needed to be more careful or else I’d be outed as a queer, which I most certainly was, and out on my ear before I had even started the job, which I most certainly didn’t want to happen.

But it was a heck of a good question... What about the men!

Sadly, from what I had seen on my way to the shed that acted as the site office, the men were a huge disappointment. I mean it was late July and the weather was fine, so I had this vision of beefcakes stripped to the waist, with bulging biceps, and slabs of meat for pecs, fabulous asses and massive front packets filling out tight fitting jeans that were conveniently ripped in interesting places. And why not! All the construction workers I drooled over on the net were like that – hot horny studs with very obliging natures, who spent most of their time screwing each other and gobbling on impressively large cocks!

Okay, so I wasn’t that stupid or out of touch with reality. I was fully aware that life around the Scottish backwater where I hail from wasn’t a triple-X gay porn flick by any means. It seemed more like a homophobic horror movie to me, hence my resolve to keep quiet about my deviant nature until I had made an escape to our more liberal minded capital city of Edinburgh. But I had hoped at least to see a couple of fit hunky guys who might have acted as inspiration for my frequent masturbation. Unfortunately there was nothing to be seen that came anywhere close to those porno construction site dreams. Most of the men that I had spotted were overweight and middle aged with unfortunate beer guts like Mr. Fairbairn boasted - hardly the stuff of teenage gay fantasy.

But of course the foreman didn’t mean that by his question. There was no homoerotic innuendo intended. He was concerned with how I was going to deal with the pack of rowdy animals he managed. Would a lad fresh out of school, with no experience of the rough and ready types that tend to work on building sites, be able to stand up to them and not run off crying at the first round of verbal abuse? That’s what Mr. Fairbairn was really asking with his limited usage of spoken language.

I’ll cope, I said, knowing that I had to - otherwise I’d be drowning in a sea of student debt. My folks weren’t rich, so it would be a struggle for them to help out, and I’d prefer they didn’t have to. I had to cope, no matter how course and nasty the men turned out to be. It wasn’t a picnic for me at school, but I managed there, I added. So don’t worry about that, Mr. Fairbairn. I’ll cope!

There was another nod and a grunt, which I took to be acceptance of the answer I gave. I waited on more questions, but the interview as such appeared to be over.

All right, as you’re Jock’s boy, I’ll give you a chance. We need extra hands at the moment to cover for holidays... Not that you’ll be of much use as a labourer, but you can take over from Rory as gofer. He’s been helping out elsewhere for the past week and the men have been giving me earache about it. A full-time gofer should keep them off my back.

A gofer? What’s that?

Mr Fairbairn declined to answer. I got the impression he wasn’t the most talkative sort who gave lengthy inductions to the new workers. Instead he took out his mobile phone and dialled a number he obviously knew well. It was answered after a few rings. Rory! Get your arse over to the office, and get it over here now! he bellowed down the line. The call was then cut off without waiting for a response.

Charming!

What a delightful way to address an employee. But then this was probably the foreman making an example, suitably setting my expectations concerning the uncouth language I would be hearing from the rest of the men. It was hardly what you’d call politically correct, but then it got even better when Mr. Fairbairn glanced out the window. Impudent little prick! he grumbled. There was a time when that boy would have run here, but now he drags his feet, shuffling along, taking his time. He’ll be getting my boot up this arse if he doesn’t wise up, then booted off this site.

Curious, I sneaked a look and spotted a figure off in the distance, a young lad at a guess, hands in his pockets as he ambled towards the shed, in no great hurry to get there... Perhaps a ‘please’ might have helped to speed him along, but I elected not to suggest such a radical approach to man management!

He’s another brain-box like you, Mr. Fairbairn informed me, as he moved from the window shaking his head in despair. This one’s home for the summer, but thankfully he’ll be heading back to Edinburgh in a few months time, and getting out from under my feet... When he eventually gets here, my dip-stick of a son will tell you what to do.

His son! So that meant it was Rory Fairbairn who was ambling towards the shed. I know! Scottish education has much to be proud of for gifting me analytical powers like that. Sherlock Holmes should watch out now that Archie Murphy’s about!

Okay, so perhaps a trained monkey could have deduced the same, but whatever - this was a turn up for the books. I knew of Rory Fairbairn, as we’d gone to the same school. He was a year older than me though, so our paths had rarely crossed. From what I could remember, he was something of an introvert, very good at chess, the school champion no less, and had a reputation for being a crafty sod, a bit on the skinny side and nothing to look at – a pair of thick glasses dominating his face and distorting the features. I wasn’t exactly bubbling with excitement at the prospect of renewing our vague acquaintance.

I waited as Mr. Fairbairn busied himself with the morning post, the man cursing every letter that he read. Then Rory eventually opened the shed door, took a step inside and grunted at his dad. In a second that seemed to last forever he made a quick appraisal, eyeing me up and down like his father had done and coming to a similar conclusion. This’ll be the new gofer, I take it, he said almost laughing out the words.

His dad grunted back in the family language which Rory was clearly fluent in. Come on then, the lad said to me without needing any instructions. Grab yourself a hat and I’ll show you around.

Rory nodded to a wall where half a dozen yellow hard hats hung on hooks. Then he turned on his booted heels and went back outside without a by-your-leave to his father. I found a hat that fitted and followed him on shaking legs, speechless, and probably gawping again.

God, how people can change!

Chapter 2

A year away from home had done Rory Fairbairn a power of good. He didn’t offer any details in the first half hour we spent together, but over the subsequent weeks his story fell into place.

In some respects it was simply Mother Nature taking its course. Since I had last set eyes on him over a year ago, Rory had filled out to an impressive degree, standing at half an inch shorter than me but with a frame that was decidedly chunkier. As well as this hunky genetic gift that had blossomed late, he also worked his butt off regularly in the gym, so the combination had resulted in a very tidy body that he happily flaunted in tight tee-shirt and hugging jeans – jeans which I might add, he filled really well from whatever angle you took in. Having escaped the shadow of his domineering father, he had come out of his shell as well, and now had the confidence to stand up for himself, not jumping to attention like he used to do every time his dad yelled out an order. The glasses had also gone, replaced by contact lenses, which in turn would get ditched in favour of laser treatment as soon as he had enough money for the operation. And without the bottle-tops, his face looked so much better – a cocky face that was full of mischief, cropped blond hair under the hard hat, sparkling blue eyes, dimpled ruddy cheeks that were smeared with grime, and luscious ruby lips that were begging to be kissed.

Of course I didn’t try. I’m not so dumb. I needed this job more than I needed a black eye, which I reckoned was the likely outcome if I made a move. Not that I would know what to do anyway,