The water was colder than usual. I liked it that way--it kept my thoughts from drifting too far. Especially when he was around.
I don't know his name. I've never even heard him speak. But I've seen him--oh, I've seen him.
He's always here, usually a few lanes down. We must have similar routines, but I swear it's not on purpose. At least, that's what I tell myself. Still, it's hard not to notice him. Harder not to watch.
He swims like the water wants him there--fluid, controlled, powerful. Each stroke cuts through the water with ease, his body rippling with effort. He's got a swimmer's rhythm, but the build of something heavier--wrestler maybe. His back broad, thighs thick, shoulders wide enough to eclipse the sun when he climbs out.
And he does it so casually. Like he doesn't know how fucking gorgeous he is. Water sliding off his chest hair in rivulets. The dark trail from his pecs down his torso disappearing into the waistband of his jammers. I've watched it. All of it.
God, that chest hair.
It drives me insane, especially when he runs his hands down his body like he's brushing off the water, muscles flexing like they know I'm watching. Maybe he does know. Sometimes I catch him glancing. Real fast. A flick of his eyes when I stretch near the ladder. Or when I towel off in front of the mirrors. Never long. Never bold. But enough to fuel my fantasies. Enough to make my cock twitch in my jammers mid-lap and keep me underwater longer than necessary.
I don't even know if he's gay.
I don't even care.
Today felt like any other day--until it didn't.
We crossed paths near the wall during cooldown laps, close enough that I could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow. He didn't smile. Just looked. Then ducked underwater again.
By the time I climbed out, he was still mid-lap. I didn't wait. Didn't want to push my luck. My dick had already threatened to misbehave in the last twenty meters, and the last thing I needed was to walk poolside with a semi. So I wrapped a towel low around my hips and headed to the showers.
The humidity hit me instantly. Hot, steamy, thick. The tiled corridor echoed with the distant splash of water from someone rinsing off outside. I picked the last stall--the one in the far corner. Habit. Privacy. I liked the sound of water cocooning me in isolation.
I turned the knob and let the hot water pound down on me, forcing myself to focus on the feeling, the temperature, anything but him. But the image was already there, burned into my skull: the way his thighs moved when he walked, how his jammers hugged his ass like second skin, the slight bounce of his cock underneath. He probably had no idea how devastating he was.
I leaned forward, palms flat on the wall, water pounding my back. My thoughts didn't wander far--just to him. His mouth. His hands. The weight of his body against mine. I felt my cock swell, half-hard already. I didn't touch it. Not yet. But the urge was there, pulsing.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath.
I gave it a minute, then reached for the soap.
And that's when I heard it.
Clack.
Something hit the tile behind me--hard and wrong. Not soap. Not a bottle. It had a different kind of weight.
Then--knock knock knock.
Soft. Three quick taps on the stall wall.
I turned, slowly. Water still running. Steam rising. My heart pounding.
There it was--half-lit in the steam, glinting beneath the shower spray. A phone.
A fucking phone.
My skin went cold despite the heat. It hadn't slid under the stall wall from outside--it had dropped into the stall. From above.
Someone had just tried to drop a phone into my shower stall.
No. Not tried--they had.
I stared at it, blinking water from my eyes. The screen was still on.
I stepped closer, heart hammering.
Camera app. Active.
Facing me.
I bent down slowly, picked it up. My wet fingers slipped on the case as I brought it up to eye level.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I opened the photo gallery.
There I was. A blurry, still-loading thumbnail.
Naked. In this stall. Just now.
Fuck. Someone was recording me.
I started shaking. It was like my brain split--one part screaming report this, now, the other paralyzed by a perverse kind of disbelief. Or shame. Or worse--curiosity.
I swiped through more.
Not just me.
As I flicked through the gallery, my pulse climbed higher. More videos. Different guys. Same angle. Different days. All of them showering, unaware. Vulnerable. Naked.
