Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DIEGO
After working out my aggression on the punching bag, we do a circuit and end with a cooldown walk on the treadmill and some stretches. By the time we’re done, I feel a hell of a lot better.
“That punching bag was legit.” I gulp down some water and then pat my face with a towel.
Callan went as hard as I did, and it shows.
There’s sweat glistening on his skin and his tank top is clinging to his chest, with a dark spot forming where the fabric rests between his pecs.
My eyes follow a bead of sweat that drips off of his stubbled chin and lands right in his cleavage.
Wait, is it still cleavage if they’re man titties instead of women’s titties?
With pecs as thick as his, there’s hardly a difference, aside from all the hair.
The thought of pressing my face between them fills my head without my permission and an unexpected heat pulses in my gut. I choke on another sip of water and Callan pats me roughly on the back.
“If you’re into it, I can talk to Fender about going a few rounds with you when you’re in the mood.”
“What?” I practically bark the question. I don’t know if I’ve even met Fender yet and he wants to… what? Pawn me off on him if I get horny enough to ask for a blowjob again? How did he even know I was thinking something so weird and horny about him just now? Was it written all over my face?
“The punching bag.” He jerks his head back towards the boxing gym. “If you liked working out your aggression that way, I can see if Fender has time to give you some pointers and go a few rounds with you in the ring. I should warn you though, he doesn’t go easy on anyone, not even newbies.”
“Oh.” I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, sure, that would be cool. As long as he doesn’t mess up this pretty face I’ve got.” I grab my own chin and give him an exaggerated pout.
“He might even be able to make some improvements.” Callan smiles, his hand falling casually onto my shoulder.
A weird, nervous jolt goes through me, but I laugh that off too.
He’s just being friendly, and there’s nothing wrong with two guys touching.
Even if one of them is gay. He lifts up his other arm and gives his own armpit an exaggerated sniff.
“Damn, I need to hit the showers before I head home or I’m going to get nasty looks on the bus again. ”
He gives me a little nudge towards the locker room, his hand still on my shoulder for a few steps until he finally drops it but keeps following me. Oh, he meant right now? Callan’s going to come into the locker room at the same time I’m in there, strip naked, and take a shower?
That’s what locker rooms are for, so why am I feeling so jumpy all of a sudden?
I glance over my shoulder and he’s still behind me.
Yeah, no, this is fine. Inside the locker room, I can hear the echo of a couple of guys laughing and the sound of another shower already running.
I turn down the first aisle of lockers and Callan’s shoes squeak against the tile floor as he does the same.
He stops at a locker a few away from mine and gives me a quick up-nod that’s clearly gym bro for “good workout, catch you tomorrow.”
I fumble with keying in the combination on the little keypad on my locker door.
My fingers are feeling clumsy and a little shaky.
Maybe I pushed it too hard? Didn’t drink enough water?
Did I eat enough today? I shake my hand out and try again, catching movement out of the corner of my eye as Callan sheds his clothes. Shirt first, shoes, shorts…
My head turns without the conscious command to do so, and I catch an eyeful of his bare ass, round and muscular.
He bends down to pick up a sock that ended up on the floor instead of inside his locker, and the movement makes his cheeks spread slightly, showing off the dark hair in his crease, while his big, swinging balls make an appearance between his thighs.
My heart jumps into my throat and I tear my gaze away from him.
It’s fine. I’ve seen plenty of naked asses and swinging balls in my life.
Usually, my cock doesn’t start to stiffen when I see them, but that’s probably just a blood flow thing.
I just finished a workout, after all. Hey, maybe that’s what the massage boner was about too.
That would be fucking funny if I was having some kind of low-key existential crisis about getting boners around Callan, only to realize it’s just because of the workouts.
Hilarious.
Honestly, that’s probably all it is. I let out a breath and manage to key my locker code in right this time, still shaking my head at myself.
I hear the shower crank on, and the sound draws my attention again.
I glance back over to see Callan stepping into the shower stall right at the end of our row of lockers.
He tugs the plastic curtain halfheartedly, leaving it more open than closed, like he’s not all that worried about preserving his modesty.
I guess that’s fair. It was pretty busy when I got to the gym an hour and a half ago, but it’s quiet now.
Even the few guys who were talking and laughing when we stepped into the locker room are on their way out as I pull my shirt over my head.
Callan’s back is to me, the muscles in his shoulders flexing and his ass cheeks clenching slightly as he tilts his face into the stream of water and runs his hands through his hair.
He shakes his head, sending droplets of water scattering, and lets out a quiet groan that I’m sure I’m not meant to hear.
Does he even realize I’m still here? Does he care?
I should stop staring, get changed, and let him have his shower in peace, but for some reason I can’t make myself move.
All I can do is stand here with my sweaty shirt in my hand and my dick getting harder, watching him pump soap into his hand from the dispenser on the shower wall.
He rubs his hands together and even from a good few feet away, I can smell the scent of cheap soap briefly covering up the typical locker-room smell of sweat and gym shoes.
He starts to run his sudsy hands all over himself, his back still to me, his ass subtly clenching and relaxing with every movement, his contented grunts and groans barely audible over the sound of the shower as he works out knots in his muscles and lets the water wash away the sweat and grime of a long day.
If it were me, I’d suffer through stinking up the bus to enjoy the luxury of my own shower, but maybe he likes the thought that someone might watch him.
This is a locker room in a gay gym, after all—maybe he was hoping I would hurry up and leave, and that someone else would come along and offer to wash his back for him.
That pretty twink from earlier pops into my head and I clench my jaw as my imagination starts to fill with images of the two of them naked together, running their hands all over each other in the not-quite-big-enough shower.
Callan braces one hand on the shower wall and lets his head hang down between his shoulders.
I really should change and leave before he finishes his shower, or he actually will think I was standing here watching him like some kind of perv.
The fact that my cock is so hard that it’s visibly tenting my shorts really wouldn’t help my case if he turned around right now and saw me staring at him.
But just when I’m about to put my sweaty shirt away and pull out a fresh one, the distinct movement of his shoulder keeps me from being able to look away.
He’s not doing what I think he is, is he?
Should I clear my throat so he knows I’m here? No, that would be worse. Then he would know I’m watching him.
His arm flexes and his ass cheeks clench with a small thrust. Another grunt echoes off the tiled walls, and this one sounds different than the previous ones. Those were “ugh, my body is aching after a long day” grunts, but this… this is a “fuck, that feels good” grunt.
My cock throbs and I drop my hand to it instinctively, squeezing the base in an attempt to get it to chill the fuck out.
It has the opposite effect though. The pressure of my grip, the drag of my hand through the fabric of my shorts only makes my cock more interested in what Callan is very clearly doing.
Fuck, those are long strokes. Is his cock really that big?
Turn around.
Fuck, no, I don’t want him to turn around.
If he turns around he’ll see me still standing a few feet away, with my shirt in one hand and my cock in the other.
Plus, if he turns around, I’ll be forced to see his hand shuttling up and down the long, hard shaft of his throbbing erection, covered in soap suds and dripping wet… I definitely wouldn’t want to see that.
He groans again, a little louder this time, and strokes himself faster.
Fuuuuuck.
I squeeze my cock harder and hold my breath against the urge to pant so I can get enough oxygen to my thundering heart and racing brain.
This isn’t gay. This is like porn. Right?
There are guys in the porn I watch, and yeah, sometimes the sound of their moans or the way their cocks look might be a little…
exciting. But it’s just because other people being horny is like yawning or something—you can’t see it and not have your body respond.
What’s Callan thinking about right now? A hot hookup he had recently? A scene from his favorite porn? Me?
My skin gets even hotter and my cock jerks against my palm.
No, he’s not thinking about me.
His words from earlier suddenly echo in my head.
“I have shit taste in men.”
He said he didn’t mean me. Of course he didn’t. If he meant me, that would imply he has a thing for me or something, and I know that can’t be true. Because if it was true, it would kind of fuck up this whole bros-slash-coach thing we’re just starting to find our groove with.
So, whoever or whatever he’s thinking about as he thrusts a little faster and moans just a little louder, it can’t be me.
His muscles tense and his ass cheeks clench hard, and my cock gives another sympathetic jerk with the knowledge that he’s coming.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Callan’s shoulders heave with rapid breaths and he sags a little harder against the shower wall for a minute before he reaches to turn off the water.
“Fuck,” I mutter again. He can’t turn around and find me still here.
I tug my sweaty shirt back on, grab my bag, and haul ass out of the locker room with my heart still thundering and his moans still echoing in my ears.
CALLAN
I probably should have waited until I got home, but fuck, I didn’t know how hard it would be to spend an hour and a half watching Diego get all sweaty and breathless now that I know what it feels like to have his cock buried in my throat.
The tingling feeling of his eyes on my back while I was washing up didn’t help anything.
Maybe it was just my imagination. He probably changed and left.
There’s no way he watched me shower and jerk off, even if there were a few times when I could have sworn I heard a sharp inhale or a muttered curse.
It was probably wishful thinking, because by the time I turn around, I’m completely alone in the locker room.
Good. It would have been a mistake to jerk off in front of a straight guy anyway.
I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist. The sound of the locker room door swinging open makes my pulse spike again. Did Diego forget something? I glance at his empty locker, the door hanging open. Nope, I guess not.
Butch comes around the corner with a big smirk on his face, dashing any lingering hope I had that Diego hurried back here to tell me he’s dying for another blowjob.
“Your boy just rushed out of here looking a bit flushed.” Butch waggles his eyebrows as he saunters to his own locker to grab his stuff.
“That’s how a client is supposed to look when you put them through a proper workout,” I tease. “It’s not all cheerleading and nicknames, man.”
“Oh, fuck off. My clients love me.” He says it so cheerfully that I can’t help but laugh.
“Uh… do you know… How long ago did he leave?” I clear my throat and stick my head into my locker so my face won’t give me away.
I would put money on the fact that I’m not the only guy here who’s cranked one out in these showers, but I don’t exactly want to broadcast it or admit that a tiny, stupid, destructive part of me is hoping Diego hung around for the show.
My spent cock twitches at even the possibility that he was watching me and getting turned on.
He’s straight, I remind myself.
Not everyone gets to have some rom-com, bisexual-awakening love story like AJ and Slater. Some of us just simp for straight guys pathologically until we eventually die alone.
I risk a peek at Butch and find him scratching his head like the question was a hell of a lot harder than it actually was. Eventually, he shrugs his massive shoulders.
“I don’t know, two minutes maybe?”
I perk up. “Two minutes? Are you sure?”
“I wasn’t looking at the clock, bro.” He shrugs again.
It’s fine. It’s better if I don’t know; it would only make this stupid crush worse. I’m Diego’s trainer and that’s that. Well, I mean, aside from also being friends, because clearly the guy is going through some shit and needs that. And if he asks for another blowjob, that’s fine.
Ugh, fuck my life. One of these days I need to stop exclusively falling for straight guys.