Erotic short. Gaz picks on the wrong guy in the showers at the gym.
Explicit M/M short between a cis man and a trans man. Some mild transphobia. Mildly dubious consent, public D/s, humiliation, size difference, dirty talk, prostate massage, begging, overstim, desperation, oral.
Terms used for the trans man are one instance of clit, and otherwise cock. Trans man has had top surgery and his scars are mentioned.
It’s a twenty-four hour gym, but Gaz is normally alone in it at this time of night, is able to work through the weights and the machines he likes best without having to wait for any of them, and without anybody offering to spot for him or asking if he wants to do sets together.
He doesn’t go to the gym to socialise — he likes having his headphones in and just being able to go through his own fucking routine, and there’s nothing worse than trying to just chill and relax when some cuck is offering to spot him and wearing his girlfriend’s CrossFit t-shirt.
He’d fucking hope it’s their girlfriends’, anyway.
He sets his own hours working in the office at home, so it doesn’t matter that he stays up late to go to the gym and sleeps late too — there’d only been one other guy in the weight room when he’d come in, and he’s already gone now.
The other guy in the changing rooms has never, to Gaz’ awareness, stepped foot into the same spaces Gaz uses. He’s a ballerina or some shit like that — he’s seen him before in the early afternoons in his leggings like a girl, walking with his yoga mat over his arm, and now he has a squash racket in his hand, his white polo shirt sticking to his body, sweat shining on the muscular lines of his legs and arms.
It’s not proper muscle — he’s muscled in a lean way, and Gaz doesn’t imagine he weighs much, because he’d be surprised if he was five foot two, might just be five foot altogether.
He probably likes that he’s the right height to suck cock.
“Alright?” he asks, glancing at Gaz as Gaz comes in, and Gaz ignores him, dropping his bag down and turning to his locker.
He hears him strip his clothes off, hears the click of his locker as he shuts it closed again. He can’t remember the little fag’s name — he does know it, because he’s seen him on Grindr, and all his pics are him showing his big eyes off and his pink lips, stroking his faggy little moustache, his beard he probably spends hours landscaping into place.
Gaz has never messaged him. He looks like the sort of prim little bitch who gets fussy about how you fuck him, makes too many demands, and even though his arse is probably tight and he’s likely good at sucking cock, Gaz hates having to deal with femboys and all the shit they like — the yoga, the dance, probably has drag shows playing 24/7, probably wears make-up.
Gaz is gay, and he likes fucking men, but he likes fucking men.
When he goes into the shower room, a big square space with benches built into the walls, the guy is washing the shampoo out of his hair, and the white suds are sliding down his back, running creamy lines over the big tattoo of a sail ship on his back.
He has scars on his chest, thin pink marks under each of his pecs, and Gaz doesn’t get why until he sees between the guy’s legs and instead of a cock there, he’s just got a fat clit.
“This is the men’s changing rooms, you know,” Gaz says.
“Oh, you noticed?” he asks: he has a rich little voice, fruity, dripping with condescension. “I wondered if you’d come in by accident.”
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Gaz demands immediately, and the guy turns to look at him, his lip curved up in a slight smile, creamy white soap suds still sliding down his shoulders and the hollow of his neck, down between his pecs, over the hair on his belly, his thighs.
“Turnabout is fair play, darling,” is the amused response. “If you can’t take it, you really oughtn’t to dish it out.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Gaz mutters as he turns the shower on. “Cockless little freak.”
“At least I know what I’m not playing with,” says the man. “My cock is barely anything, true, but at least I go to the effort of putting a few strap-ons into my bedside cabinet to show my partners a good time. Something tells me that you just embrace disappointment and offer them that tiny little thing. One would think with all that muscle on you that you might be the least bit proportional — steroids, was it?”
“I’ve never fucking taken steroids, you little — ”
“Never?” The man actually laughs at him, a musical sound that echoes off the shower room’s wet rooms. “You mean to tell me that what you have in that bush of yours is nature’s endowment? I suppose it’s wrong of me to call it an endowment. How adorable. I’ve seen your little Masc4Masc advertisements — do the other big boys laugh at you when you pull your trousers down?”
“Fucking trap.”
“Me? Trap? Sweetheart. You do flatter me, but I’m afraid you’re not really my type.”
Gaz doesn’t mean to lose his temper, but the little guy talks too fast and makes him feel stupid, and he fucking hates feeling stupid because he isn’t, he just can’t talk a mile a minute to run rings around people and trick them into thinking they are, but when he lunges that goes too fast, too.
Before his hand can shove against the little man’s shoulder, the little man grabs his hand and pulls it, almost makes him slip and lose his balance, except that the man shoves him against the wall and twists his arm up unnaturally: it makes Gaz cry out loudly because it fucking hurts, a sudden wrench in the back of his shoulder that feels like with the slightest pressure it might pop right out of his socket.
“All you big men,” says the man mildly, and Gaz heaves in a gasp as his knee nudges Gaz’ legs apart, making him widen his stance, and Gaz shoves his face against the tile as the hot water keeps spraying over him. His cock is starting to get hard, maybe started to get hard the first time the other guy called it small, and he feels hot all over. “All that muscle, and you’ve not the slightest idea how to use it. You ought come into one of my classes sometime, you know, and perhaps we’ll see if we can’t teach a little self-control.”
“What, you teach fucking MMA or some shit?”
“MMA? Ha. No, darling, I teach contemporary dance. Martial arts are just a hobby of mine.”
“Lemme go,” Gaz grunts, trying to shift on his feet, but the tile is slippery and he doesn’t want to fall, and even just moving a bare inch hurts because the twisting hold on his wrist.
“Are you going to be a nice, well-behaved gentleman if I do?” asks the man.
Gaz doesn’t know why the fuck that makes his cock pulse, but it does, and the man must see the dribble of pre drip in with the shower water, because he laughs again.
“Oh, you sweet, stupid thing,” he says. “If all that posturing is just because you want someone to actually top you, you should say so — perhaps I could put you in touch with someone similarly inclined.”
“Fuck you,” mutters Gaz.
“Oh, people do,” says the man mildly. “Not meaning to be unkind, but men with something to play with between their legs only, I’m afraid — yours is really only good for a sort of cute ornamentation, but I’m sure you have other pleasant features. Is your hole well-trained, at least?”
The noise Gaz lets out is involuntary and completely fucking humiliating, a sort of strangled moan that comes out of his throat as his cock throbs between his thighs, and he shoves his face further against the tile, but all that does is shift the angle of the hot water running down his back, and when a trickle slides right between his cheeks and over his asshole it makes him hiss, hips giving a tiny jump against the air even though it further wrenches his shoulder. The water pressure is low but at this time of night there’s no shortage of hot water, and the water feels good as it trickles over his balls.
“Hm,” says the man thoughtfully, as though he’s measuring Gaz up. “You know, I’m happy to indulge you as a sort of philanthropic act of kindness, but I’ll need a verbal invitation.”
“You got a strap-on?” Gaz hears himself hoarsely ask, and when the man laughs at him again it goes right through him, makes his dick feel like it’s so fucking hard he could cut diamonds with it.
“I really don’t think you’ve earned that,” he says, “but I’m happy to give you my fingers. Perhaps if you’re very good indeed I’ll let you suck my cock.”
It’s because he hasn’t gotten any in a while, because he’s been pulling long hours between work and the gym and hasn’t actually gotten out to fuck anybody, hasn’t gotten his dick wet at all, that he’s considering this.
He spreads his thighs a little wider apart, and the man’s thumb slides between his cheeks, circles the puckered muscle of his hole, presses on it experimentally as if to test the muscle, and Gaz squeezes his eyes tightly shut.
He doesn’t let men fuck him, normally, doesn’t bottom at all, but he fingers himself sometimes in the shower like this, because touching himself like that makes him come so hard he can fucking black out from it, and he’s remembering that feeling now.
“My name is Sebastian,” says the little man. “And if you want me to put my fingers in you, you’re going to say, very nicely, like a gentleman, “I would like for you to fuck me with your fingers, please, Sebastian,” alright? Understand?”
“I’m not fucking saying that,” snaps Gaz.
“Oh,” says Sebastian. “What a shame.”
He lets Gaz’ wrist go, and Gaz immediately puts both of his hands on the shower tile, keeping himself slightly bent forward, but Sebastian isn’t touching him at all now, is rifling through a little shower bag for bodywash.
“Wait,” Gaz hisses. “Wait, my — my cock is hard.”
“Oh, yes,” says Sebastian. “It’s like it doesn’t know how small it is, isn’t it? Very sweet.”
Gaz feels so hot it’s killing him, and he reaches between his legs, squeezing his cock in his hand and closing his eyes tightly, because it feels good, but now he just wants Sebastian’s fingers in him, wants —
“Would you — I want you to, to do that. Please,” he manages to say, although he gets it out through gritted teeth, and Sebastian looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, seeming to consider it.
“Not quite what I wanted you to say,” he says, “but close enough. Hands off yourself, please. You’ll come on my fingers or you won’t come at all. On your hands and knees, if you would.”
Gaz stands for a second, cock in hand, and Sebastian actually raises an eyebrow at him.
Gaz slowly sinks to the ground.
“Very good,” says Sebastian condescendingly as Gaz’s palms touch to the wet tile, his knees spread apart. “Do men fuck this little hole of yours often, Gaz?”
“No.”
“It should be tight then,” says Sebastian, and Gaz groans as he slides two fingers slick with lube from his little bag into him at once. He lets out a low, disapproving sound, “Somewhat loose. What a shame — barely any cock, and a slutty hole, too. One would hope, at least, that your mouth was worth something.”
“Fuck,” hisses Gaz, hiding his face against his hands, and it’s beyond humiliating being like this, on his hands and knees with some tiny fucking guy half his size telling him what to do, but his dick is so hard he feels like it’s about to fucking explode, his balls drawn up tight in their sac.
Sebastian does not fuck him with his fingers, does not finger him any way Gaz has fingered himself before: he slides his fingers forward until he finds Gaz’ prostate, and then instead of fucking past it, dragging over it, he presses the two pads of his fingers against the nub of nerves and rubs.
Gaz lets out a desperate groan, trying to sit up, but when he does Sebastian delivers a hard slap to the his balls, sudden stinging pain that makes his cock jump and makes him whimper and go down to the tile again.
“Try to behave,” Sebastian says sternly. “I’m already doing you a favour, aren’t I?”
“That fucking — that hurts, that hurts — ”
“I don’t think it does,” Sebastian says doubtfully, rubbing in slow, even circles that make Gaz’ cock leak like it’s a fucking tap, pre dripping down from the head of his cock almost non-stop, and it’s too much, an electric sensation that’s almost like coming and pissing at the same time, just feels fucking constant, overwhelming. There’s no satisfaction like comes with actually coming: his balls are drawn up tight and his cock is dribbling and the sensation is searing, but there’s no sense of finality, no sense of an end, and his eyes are watering, it’s so fucking intense, and yet somehow it’s so fucking dull he just can’t come.
“I expect if you did start steroids,” says Sebastian, “you’d be the sort of man to grow some little tits of your own and leak a little milk. I expect you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Could feel like you were good for something, being milked like this at one end and milked properly from the other.”
Gaz squeezes his eyes shut, because he’s not crying, but the sensation is so fucking intense that he squeezes a tear out of each eye, and Sebastian’s other hand is stroking idly up and down his back.
“Please,” he whimpers, knows exactly what he sounds like, knows he sounds like a little bitch, but he just needs to come, feels like he’ll go fucking crazy if he can’t, as if his brains are leaking out his dick as well as his pre.
“Oh, alright,” says Sebastian with a sigh, and when his other hand goes underneath Gaz’ belly, he braces himself for the impossible ecstasy of Sebastian’s pretty little hand closing around his cock, but it doesn’t come. “Against my palm, then, if you want it so badly.
It’s so fucking humiliating he almost comes from that alone, feels a kind of edge closer, but he can’t reach it: he has to bend his knees to try to thrust his cockhead against Sebastian’s palm, and it shouldn’t feel as good as it fucking does, but shit, shit —
He actually does sob when he comes, and Sebastian keeps fucking rubbing at his prostate throughout, just keeps massaging as his cock jumps, pulses, and Gaz is gasping raggedly, desperately, as he does.
“There,” says Sebastian, taking back both his hands and wiping them on Gaz’ back.
“Lemme,” says Gaz hoarsely, leaning back on his knees, his whole face burning, his cock soft between his legs but still tingling, still feeling like it’s trying to get hard, “can I — can I please, I just want to, can I suck you off?”
Sebastian looks down at him dispassionately, and then sighs, sitting down on the bench and spreading his legs apart.
He’s barely even wet.
“If you must,” he says long-sufferingly in a way that makes Gaz almost fucking whine, and Gaz jumps to suck the little nub of his cock. He’s too greedy about it, sucks too hard, because Sebastian grabs him by the hair and pulls him back. He doesn’t even look irritated, just disappointed as he looks down at Gaz on his knees, and says, “Really, and nothing to that mouth, either. Are you good for anything?”
“Fuck,” Gaz hisses, cock giving a twitch against his thigh, trying desperately to harden up again already.
“Try again,” Sebastian says, slowly pushing his face back between his legs. “Suck nicely, and use that tongue of yours, mmm, more to the left… Ah. There we go, that’s a little better. A bit of training and I’m sure you’d be a perfectly adequate toy.”
Adequate, fuck, Gaz feels like he’s going to die he’s still so turned on.
Sebastian sighs, and Gaz inhales deeply, feels the wetness gathering against his chin, and lets Sebastian guide him through the blowjob until he comes on Gaz’ face.
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