I’m in the communal shower block of a modest suburban leisure centre, and it’s completely empty – empty, except for me and him. This is not unusual. We play squash during the daytime, well before the post-work peak, and a lot of guys don’t bother getting changed anyway. They just pack up their stuff and dash off, hurrying back to the office or home to their families.
But we don’t need to dash off anywhere. We have time, and I use that time to watch him. Not openly, not obviously – I’m not brave enough for that – but whenever he tosses his head back to rinse off his hair, or reaches over to squeeze shower gel into his hands from the dispenser fixed to the wall, my eyes are on him.
They roam over the tight arse muscles that bunch and flex with each twist of his body. They follow the torrent of soapy water that runs along a seam from the base of his throat down his chest, to tumble off his breastbone and wash over his dimpled stomach.
They steal hot, hungry glances at his cock.
Not that it’s exactly easy to miss.
I like to turn away afterwards and tilt my head, so I can feel the hot water pouring onto my face. It makes it easy to imagine kneeling down in front of him, blinking and gasping as it drips and spits off his body. Peering up to see him guide his dick slowly, firmly, towards my mouth, wrist cocked as if he’s about to drive another backhand deep into the far corner.
That’s actually one of the first things I noticed about him. The ease, the assurance with which he grips his racquet. It’s an extension of his body, the butt resting lightly in the heel of his palm, and he wields it with perfect control. I’ve never been able to stop wondering whether he does the same with his cock.
Squash can be like that though. It’s a kinetic, physical game, and strangely intimate as a result. You move and dance around each other, aware at all times of where your partner – your opponent – is, and where he’s going next. You watch them stretch, lunge, and twist; you hear every grunt, every pant of exertion as they bunch their thighs and leap forward to return a shot. Your sweat mixes with theirs.
By the time we finish each week, our t-shirts translucent and clinging, I feel like I know his body almost as well as I know my own. It’s more voyeuristic than showering together, which is perhaps why one flows so naturally into the other. Getting naked is no big deal when you’ve just spent 40 minutes locked together in tussling, back-and-forth combat on the squash court.
It’s exciting – everything about it. I love watching his muscles relax and stretch out under the jets. Mine never quite get there, and I put the blame for that lingering tension squarely on him. It’s not easy to unwind when all you want to do is wrap your fingers around the base of his semi-stiff dick and slide your lips all the way down to meet them.
I say semi-stiff, but it’s sometimes hard to tell. He’s big enough that when I first saw his dick spring out of his pants, I assumed it was fully erect – only when it settled back down between his legs did it occur to me that it might get bigger still. That was not an easy thought to let go. Since then, I’ve occasionally seen it twitch as he’s soaped the shaft, his thumb flicking and rubbing over the head, but he doesn’t spend long enough pumping his hand up and down to elicit a less ambiguous response. Nor does he know that I’d love to do it for him.
I often wonder which of his midgame grunts most resembles the noise he’d make if I did gently pull his cockhead between my lips and hold it on my tongue. I like to think I’d be able to suck him slowly – to savour that first teasing mouthful for long enough to make his knees buckle with the anticipation of more – but I know I’m not nearly that patient. I can’t imagine he would be either, and the thought of his hips jutting forward, demanding more, is one I studiously avoid when I’m actually in the shower, in case I jizz all over myself right there in front of him.
Even on a sleepy weekday afternoon, the location would demand that kind of urgency – wouldn’t it? He’d have to fuck my mouth; to pull me all the way onto his cock, and call me every filthy name under the sun as he spurts down my throat. Or at least that’s how it plays out in my head. Fear of discovery and the thrill of something new, something laced with just the right amount of danger – well, I don’t see how it could be anything other than quick and rough.
He has it in him, that harder edge. You wouldn’t think it if you watched him on court; he’s so languid, so liquid in his movements that it’s easy to miss how quick he is with it. How efficiently he closes off the distance between his racquet and the ball, each step seemingly calculated to bring the two together with his body in perfect balance and ready to strike. He doesn’t waste a drop of energy.
It’s fucking sexy – that ruthless grace. Balletic and deadly. Stripped of anything superfluous, and unleashed on his target with singleminded precision. Yeah, I could work with that. I can feel his fingers now, positioned just where he needs them to be, along my jawline and up under my cheekbone. Thick fingers working to hold me in place for his thick cock. Thighs flexing with every thrust.
He always gets dressed quickly, as if he’s trying to claw back the extra minutes he spent soaking under the shower. I wait there an extra minute or two, not wanting to step out into the changing room with my dick bobbing and bouncing in front of me. Instead I savour that ache, that throb, for just a few greedy moments more, then I compose myself and reach for my towel.
One day I’ll…no, no I won’t. I like his boyfriend – they’re good together, and sweetly monogamous, and we’re just mates, none of which really adds up to a sweaty, post-squash suck-job. I’ll have to settle for beating him on the court each week and beating off at home afterwards, thinking about that perfect dick swelling to fill my mouth.
If he asked.
I wouldn’t say no.