Worout Heat

I see Sean four mornings a week at the gym. He runs the treadmill and I swim, but our schedules are close enough that we arrive at nearly the same time and finish our workouts a few minutes apart.

I thought this a coincidence, at first. But I knew better when I got to know him, and learned to appreciate him in unimaginable ways.

Our lockers are in the same area; you know how it is with routine. From the beginning, I enjoyed the ritual of preparing for our workouts, and if I close my eyes now I can see every detail of the first time I took serious notice of Sean getting ready for his run.

As usual, he arrived in jeans, battered sneakers, a T-shirt and he carried his gear in a knapsack that had seen better days. From two lockers down a little before 5 a.m., he smelled both of sleep and strong musk.

I was ready before he was, wearing a pair of baggy swim trunks. But my goggles needed adjustment, or so I convinced myself, so I sat on the bench tugging at the strap. Of course, this was little more than a cheap excuse to watch him, although with a careful discretion.

Sean was slow and deliberate in getting ready, as though he wasn't going to waste an ounce of the energy he planned to burn on the treadmill. I thought of myself as a card-carrying straight male, and since adolescence I'd not experienced anything even remotely sexual with another guy.

Still, I didn't avert my eyes in the common showers, amid the sight of many other men soaping up, and what's more, I couldn't help but feel a burning curiosity on this morning as I observed Sean.

This was not discouraged by the fact he wore neither boxers nor briefs. I assumed he had rolled out of bed and stepped naked into his jeans, combing his hair with his fingers before stumbling out the door in the dark. With his back to me, he kicked off his shoes, shook out of his shirt then peeled down his jeans, bending at the waist as he stepped out of the faded denim.

Sean was a vision from behind: he had a sharply defined fan of muscle at the upper back, tapering to a trim waist and a round, firm ass, and his powerful hamstrings and calves were sinewy from his running. When he bent naked at this athletic waist, his legs shoulder-width apart, it was me who grew weak at the knees.

His magnificent balls hung fully and tantalizingly between his thighs. They looked heavy, swaying loosely as he moved. I suddenly imagined myself reaching through his legs and taking them in my palm, kneading them, feeling their heat and texture and glorious weight, and when that outrageous idea swept through me, I felt a flood of arousal course through my veins and rush to my groin. Damn good thing I was wearing baggy trunks and not a Speedo.

Sean lingered, and I heard him yawn as he stretched languidly, his back still to me. Slowly he placed his left foot - it is always his left foot first - into the thin strap of his athletic support. Then the right, and almost in slow motion he pulled the nylon and elastic harness up his legs, bending slightly at the knees as his left hand reached in front of him.

It took him a moment to arrange his beefy package in the pouch, and then he smoothed the waistband and hooked his thumbs under the thin straps that cupped his cheeks, pulling them back and snapping them in place. The contrast of the plain white support on his tanned skin was remarkable.

With similar economy of motion, he pulled up a pair of blue Lycra shorts, again digging his hand down the front to adjust himself, then dropped a loose singlet over his head and turned slowly, almost as if to give me the time to adjust my gaze.

"Another day," he said, putting a foot on the bench to lace up a running shoe. I mumbled something equally profound, and then we headed out the locker-room door together before turning in our opposite directions.

"Enjoy your run," I said.

"Yeah, and have a good swim," he replied. "See you in a bit."

Forty-five minutes later, we both saw considerably more than a bit.

It was 5:45 a.m. when I was back at my locker, gathering up my soap and towel. I didn't hear Sean, but I felt the sting of his towel on my bare ass.

I wheeled around and there he was, grinning, twirling his towel again, twisting it into a cloth whip. His eyes weren't exactly staring into mine, and then he looked up and winked. Through my entire swim, and even at this instant, I had been thinking of his body and what he had tucked into his athletic support, and my arousal was plain to see. Now I was facing Sean, and we both realized I was semi-erect.

"Couldn't resist," he said, grinning. I laughed despite myself.

"Nice aim, fella," I replied, turning half away. "Glad I wasn't facing you."

He looked down again, his attention to my embarrassing growth doing nothing to lessen my arousal. And then he undressed. Sean stripped down more quickly than he had gotten ready, peeling off his shorts and jockstrap in one fluid motion. His musky smell was stronger than before, and stronger than the chlorine that still was in my pores.

He turned half toward me and, in profile, I saw I was not alone in my predicament. Sean had swollen to a moderate fullness, his thick, circumsized cock thrusting out, bobbing just a little.

"Testosterone," he said in casual explanation. "Happens after a good workout."

"I hear you," I said, setting off for the showers, holding my towel in front of me, praying that no one else would wander in. I was safe in that regard; the gym was practically empty, and it wouldn't be busy for another hour.

We exchanged a little small talk, cranking open the taps at adjacent shower heads, and stood beneath the flow. I was not facing Sean and thought, mistakenly, that some idle chatter would cure my problem. But then I looked to him as I turned in the spray and saw him at full staff. He was an astonishing sight.

We continued to chat, and in a few minutes his body was bubbling in a soapy foam, suds dripping from his shoulders and over his broad chest to his groin. His loose fist was beginning to pay special attention to this area, and his moderate fullness had given way to a raging hard-on.

"Don't just stand there," he said brightly. "Join me."

I thought my heart was in my mouth, and with no sign of anyone else in the locker room, my hand dropped to my cock, which by now was also fully engorged. Wordlessly, and dare I say eagerly, I joined him.

I looked down at my erection, which was slipping fluidly through my hand, then to Sean. He was staring unabashedly at this, clearly turned on by what he was seeing. I felt like I was an adolescent again, behind the shed of my best friend's house, unzipping with a buddy and jerking off in great lustful need.

I returned Sean's look. He had reached behind himself with his bar of soap and had smeared it over his ass, and now he was reaching between his legs. This afforded me a complete, unobstructed view of his cock, and it was a specimen the likes of which I had not seen.

He was finely cut, and as dollops of foam dripped off his thick shaft, I saw his thick mushroom head, almost purple in color, bloated. I guessed him at 7, maybe 8 inches, and absolutely a mouthful. His balls were enormous, and in this wet heat, they hung lower and more loosely than they had when I'd ogled them as he had undressed.

There was a primal need we now shared, and this act seemed the most natural thing in the world. There is a unique sound made by a hard cock in a wet, soapy fist. You know it: it's an arousing, sloppy sound of swollen flesh in a tunnel of fingers, of heavy, full balls slapping against thighs as the motion becomes quicker.

All inhibition now gone, Sean and I stared at each other below the waist, mumbling to ourselves and to each other. By now I was leaning against the wall, using one arm for support. He was busy with both hands, pawing at his balls, pulling them, dipping lower, his middle finger burying itself knuckle-deep in his ass, pistoning in and out.

It occurred to me that we were almost facing each other, less than three feet feet apart. The heat was incredible, and almost without warning, Sean was there. He grunted deeply, and it was then I saw an opaque stream arc from his cockhead, projected with violent force. It struck me directly in the navel, in a viscous glob.

I didn't recoil. Instead, I turned to face him squarely, offering him a broader target as I stroked, inviting his aim. He shot again and again and again, each of his spurts splashing my hand, my cock and my left thigh, his cream dripping off me to the tiled floor.

Almost immediately he set me off, as though he had squeezed my trigger. I came in a torrent as well, and as Sean was milking the last from his balls, I throbbed a copious load onto his body, from his stomach down to his loins. He scooped my cum into his palm and stroked himself some more, using me as a lubricant, and I thought I was going to pass out.

The shower spray soon pounded us into submission, and that's just as well. There was a little noise at the far end of the room, others arriving for their workout. I was never more grateful for being flaccid than I was now, and yet never more eager to be hard again.

Sean and I dressed in near silence, and headed out into the parking lot together. A very small part of my curiosity had been satisfied, but now I also knew this: I needed this man's cock between my lips. Soon.

"How about 4:30 tomorrow morning?" I said to him.

Subtlety wasn't my strong suit.

"I'll be here," he said, and when I arrived at that ungodly hour the next day, half expecting to never see him again, Sean was already at his locker.

"Thought I'd skip my run today and head straight for the sauna," he said.

Then he stepped out of his jeans, his thickly veined cock massively hard, a bead of moisture at its tip. He dipped his finger into it and smeared it around the fat head. It glistened invitingly.

I decided I didn't need a swim after all, and as I dropped my jeans to my ankles, wearing neither boxers nor briefs, I realized I was very, very hungry.