Dust and Desire: A Bricklayer’s SinI’m Jack, 47, a broke-ass bricklayer scraping by in Gritsville, a shithole of smokestacks and cracked pavement where the dust never settles. This is my story—me and my girl, Tessa, and how we stumbled into a sin so thick it choked out the last scraps of decency I had left. It’s gritty, hard, and fuckin’ real, a descent carved from sweat and steel. I’m laying it out, every raw, pounding detail, ‘cause she’s my weakness, and I ain’t strong enough to walk away.Tessa was 19 when it kicked off, a tough little thing bred from this city’s bones—dirty blonde hair tied back with a rag, blue eyes sharp as rebar, and a body that hit me like a sledge—tits that pushed her tank tops to the limit, an ass round from climbing scaffolds, legs lean and scarred from street life. Her mom bailed when Tessa was a kid, leaving me to drag her up in our crumbling tenement on the edge of Gritsville’s warehouse district. I laid bricks all day, broke my back for pennies, and we survived—barely—until survival turned into something darker.It started last summer, when Tessa came back from a stint hauling scrap with a junk crew. The heat was a bastard, the air thick with cement dust, and I was beat, sitting on a milk crate outside our place, shirt off, chugging a warm beer. She rolled up in cutoffs and a cropped tee, sweat pasting it to her skin, her nipples poking through. My cock stirred, and I cursed the devil in me.“Fuckin’ hell of a day,” she muttered, snagging my beer and downing it, her throat working as she leaned against the wall. Her shorts rode up, showing the curve where her thigh met her ass, and I gripped the crate, my knuckles white. “You look like shit, Dad,” she said, smirking, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and I caught her eyeing my chest, the scars from a lifetime of labor.“Feel like it,” I growled, but my eyes were glued to her, the way her tits moved when she breathed. She stepped closer, brushing dust off my shoulder, her fingers rough from work, and I felt it—a jolt, straight to my dick. “Grown up tough, Tess,” I mumbled, and she grinned, a glint in her eye that fucked me up.That was the first spark in the dust. The next few weeks, it burned hotter. She’d crash around the apartment in my old flannels, unbuttoned, her thong peeking out as she bent over. I’d catch her washing up in the sink, shorts down, her bare ass flashing, and I’d jerk off in the shower later, her name a grunt in my throat. We’d sit on the stoop at night, her leg against mine, and I’d smell her—sweat and cheap soap—wanting to grab her, to break her open. She’d tease, knowing, and I was drowning.Then came the night I caved.A storm rolled in, heavy and mean, rattling the tenement’s thin walls. I was in the kitchen, in stained briefs, sipping rotgut whiskey from a jar, when Tessa stormed in, soaked from a busted pipe job down the block. She wore a drenched tank and panties, the fabric clinging, her tits and pussy outlined like a fuckin’ blueprint. My cock jumped, and I couldn’t look away.“Goddamn mess,” she spat, peeling the tank off, tossing it, leaving her in just the wet panties. She grabbed my jar, took a swig, and plopped beside me, her thigh hot against mine. “Dad,” she said, her voice low, “you’re staring again.” Her hand landed on my leg, sliding up, brushing my bulge, and I groaned, a broke man’s last stand crumbling.“Tessa,” I rasped, “this ain’t right,” but she leaned in, kissing me—hard, hungry, tasting of whiskey and rain. I snapped, grabbing her, pulling her onto my lap, her cunt grinding my cock through my briefs. I yanked her panties down, baring her—tits full, nipples hard, pussy wet—and shoved her against the table. “Fuck it,” I snarled, dropping my briefs, my cock springing free—thick, scarred, aching.She spread her legs, and I dove in, licking her—salty, slick, pure fuckin’ need—sucking her clit as she screamed, “Shit, Dad, yes!” Her hands clawed my back, her hips bucking, and she came, her juices dripping down my chin. “Fuck me,” she begged, and I thrust in, deep and rough, her tight cunt swallowing me as she yelled, “You’re huge!” I pounded her, the table scraping the floor, her tits bouncing as I grunted, “You’re mine, girl.”I flipped her over, bending her across the sink, and slammed back in, spanking her ass red as she pushed back, her moans sharp and wild. “Harder, you old fuck,” she growled, and I grabbed her hair, yanking as I railed her, her pussy soaking the counter. She came again, shaking, and I roared, “Gonna cum,” unloading thick cum deep inside her, filling her as she milked me dry.That night broke the dam. Gritsville became our rough-ass playground. We fucked in a half-built high-rise, her bent over a beam, me taking her ass—yeah, she begged for it after I greased her with motor oil—cranes groaning as she screamed. In a derelict factory, I tied her to a pipe with my work belt, teasing her clit with a brick’s edge until she sobbed, then fucked her standing, machinery rusting around us. One night, we hit the subway tracks, and she rode me on a stalled car, her tits in my face, trains rumbling as I came.The wildest was a job site after hours. I blindfolded her with my bandana, tied her wrists with rebar wire, and edged her—my fingers in her cunt, a hammer handle brushing her ass—until she was a begging wreck, yelling, “Fuck me, Dad, now!” I did, hard and deep, the scaffolding shaking, dust falling as she came, her screams echoing, my cum dripping down her thighs in the dark.We knew it was fucked, knew Gritsville’s hardasses would beat me dead if they sniffed it. But in this dust-choked hell—her pussy, her cries, her body—she was my sin, my lifeline. Even now, she’s in the bedroom, naked on the mattress, wet and waiting, daring me to lay another brick in this tower of ruin. And I will, ‘cause she’s all I got left to build.