Surrender by Blood
Last evening I went for a swim at the small private pool and gym near my place.
It’s a quiet spot, especially at night, with a poky little setup: a tidy but cramped pool area, a few exercise machines, and a changing room that’s all clean lines and fluorescent lights.
The lockers are basic, requiring your own combination padlock, which I always bring to keep my stuff safe.
I peeled off the plaster before diving in—nobody wants a soggy Band-Aid floating in the pool.
My finger didn’t bleed in the water, thankfully, but when I got back to the locker room and started fiddling with the padlock’s combination, the cut reopened.
Twisting the dial tugged at the wound, and a bead of blood welled up, smearing onto my fingers.
I yanked my towel from the locker, slung it over my shoulder—nobody else was around—and tossed my swim shorts into a polythene bag.
Normally, I’d lock up before showering; there’ve been thefts around here.
But with blood threatening to drip everywhere, I figured I’d risk it and left the locker open.
The changing room was deserted, just me and the hum of the lights.
It’s a straightforward setup: rows of metal lockers, a long mirror above a line of basins, and a shower area tucked at the far end.
The mirror’s great for guys like me to check we’re looking sharp before heading out, though it also gives a prime view of anyone changing—purely incidental, of course!
The showers are open-plan, and if you pick the right spot, you can catch a reflection of the lockers and most of the changing room in the mirror.
That was my plan: shower, keep an eye on my stuff, and avoid any blood-related disasters.
I stood under the shower, cranking the water as hot as I could handle, letting it scald away the day’s tension.
The changing area was empty, just me, the steam, and the rhythmic patter of water.
I took my time, savouring the heat. After a couple of minutes, I thought I heard footsteps—soft, deliberate ones—entering the changing room.
I glanced at the mirror, expecting to see someone, but it reflected nothing but lockers and empty space.
I shrugged it off; old buildings make weird noises.
When I was done, I shut off the shower, grabbed my towel, and started walking back to my locker, rubbing my face and hair dry.
I didn’t bother wrapping the towel around my waist—nobody was there, so why fuss?
I was mid-stride, towel still over my head, when I nearly collided with a man standing by the lockers.
I stopped short, inches from him, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence.
My brain refused to process it—I’d been sure I was alone.
I took a step back, towel dropping to my chest, and just stared.
He was in his early twenties, a vision of raw physicality.
Muscular, perfectly defined, like he’d stepped out of a fitness magazine.
Black hair, slightly tousled, framed dark brown eyes that seemed to pierce right through me.
Stubble dusted his jaw—thick enough to suggest he hadn’t shaved in a day or two, giving him a rugged edge.
His body hair was sparse but striking, black strands standing out against his skin.
He stood maybe six feet tall, and—yes, I noticed—he was stark naked.
His black pubic hair was neatly trimmed, and his cock, uncut and impressive, hinted at a slight swell, or maybe that was my imagination running wild.
The air between us crackled with something unspoken, a pulse of raw, electric tension.
I couldn’t stop looking, my eyes roaming over him shamelessly.
My brain was still catching up, grappling with the fact that someone was here when I’d sworn the place was empty.
That’s my excuse, anyway. He noticed my stare and gave a half-smile, his teeth gleaming white, sharp enough to catch my attention.
He reached down, grabbed a pair of red Speedos, and pulled them on, not turning away, not hiding a thing.
It was like he was performing, fully aware of the effect he had.
Those Speedos hugged him perfectly, emphasizing every curve and contour.
Speedos aren’t common these days—most guys under fifty opt for board shorts—but this guy wore them like a challenge, daring anyone to look away.
I didn’t. My towel hung limp in my hands, my body frozen, and if I’m honest, the stirring between my legs was a warning I was seconds from betraying my interest.
Then it happened—a flicker, not of the lights, but of something else, like reality itself blinked.
One moment, he was on my right, his eyes locked on me with an intensity that felt hungry, predatory.
The next, he was on my left, that fierce look softened into a slight, knowing smile.
It was so fast, so seamless, I almost doubted it happened.
My heart thudded, a mix of arousal and unease.
I forced myself to step back, putting a couple more feet between us, my bare feet cold on the tile.
He locked his locker—right next to mine—turned to face me, flashed a broader smile, and winked.
Then he strode toward the pool door, his movements fluid, confident.
I couldn’t help it; I checked out his backside, and it was every bit as flawless as the rest of him.
I turned to the mirror, wanting to watch him go without being obvious about it.
But he wasn’t there. The mirror showed the lockers, the basins, the empty changing room—no reflection of him at all.
I spun back to the door, then to the mirror again, my pulse racing.
He was there, physically there, but the mirror showed nothing.
No reflection. Just empty space where he should have been.
My skin prickled, the hairs on my neck standing up.
I scrambled into my clothes, the shock sinking in.
I’d just met a man with no reflection—a black-haired Adonis with a perfect body, a teasing wink, and no trace in the mirror.
If the movies are anything to go by, I should be checking my neck for bite marks.
My fingers brushed my neck instinctively, and I froze.
My cut finger, still bleeding, had left a smear of blood on my skin.
I stepped closer to the mirror to wipe it off, and my breath caught.
Two distinct spots of blood marked my neck, like twin punctures.
My heart pounded as I stared at my reflection, the changing room silent around me.
Had I smeared the blood there myself, or was something else at play?
The memory of his smile, those sharp teeth, that hungry look—it sent a shiver down my spine, but not entirely from fear.
There was something intoxicating about him, something that made me wonder if I’d mind a bite or two.
The thought alone had my blood racing, and not just from the cut on my finger.