CW: over the top, far-fetched smutty work of fantasy and domination. Humiliation, semi-public exposure, non-consensual elements, tons of SPH. Not romantic or realistic. Skip it if it's not your thing. Otherwise, enjoy.
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It was an oppressively hot summer day, and I had just put myself through the toughest workout possible on the lackluster equipment available at the club's small gym. I had signed in using my father's membership card. It was a weekday, I was off work for the week, home from the city.
I hadn't noticed any golfers on the parched green or players in the sun-baked tennis courts as I drove up, nor had I seen anyone else in the old manor that housed the gym and locker room. While benching I had whipped my shirt off in the weight room, having the unairconditioned space to myself. Not that anyone would have been offended to discover me bare chested. The place had a very old-school clientele - some of the oldest members still did laps in the pool completely nude and without a hint of self-consciousness.
As I finished my work out I admired my lean, muscular build - I was shining with sweat. Alone in the locker room, I stripped fully and left my dripping clothes on the bench, clutching the towel in my hand as I made my way to the four shower stalls off the bathroom.
I watched myself in the mirrors, my sweat-slick body, my pecs pumped from my workout, the way my cock bounced between my legs. As I walked I ran my fingers through the light smattering of golden hair that dappled my chest, belly and crotch. I enjoyed the feeling of exposure, showing off my ass to the empty locker room.
At college I had developed a bit of an exhibitionist streak, delighting in being naked in spaces like this, displaying my well-muscled body. Now in my 30s I still took the opportunity to strut around nude - locker rooms and showers were a safe place to do this, to show off my body and discreetly see other men's bodies too.
Plus, exercise always made me horny. As I stepped under the shower and the cool water fell on my naked body I gripped my stiffening penis.
I should have known better than to play with myself in the showers. but it was a stall with raised, saloon swinging doors and I thought that I could keep myself concealed. A man passing by should only have been able to see my bare feet and well-trimmed toenails, the light hair speckling my ankles.
I had gotten into this habit at my own gym in the city, which had similar shower stalls. I had become an expert in listening for approaching footsteps, the slap of shower shoes, or the opening of a door, and would give it a rest the second I sensed anyone was nearby. Truthfully, because I knew it was wrong and dangerous, the act became heightened, the riskiness eroticized. Though it embarrassed me to name it, it felt naughty. Playing with myself in a place like this.
I hadn't cum for a few days now and just rubbing my palm on the underside of my erection made it pulse needfully. I placed my left hand upon the wet tiled wall and leaned into it, then spread my legs wider. I closed my eyes and took my hard-on in my fist. In my mind I began to play a frequent fantasy - of being observed like this. Caught masturbating in public.
I imagined being watched, that this wasn't a private stall but a large gang-style shower with multiple steaming heads. Men coming in and out, gawking at my self-abuse, elbowing each other, maybe ridiculing me in harsh baritone while others cackled with throaty echoing laughter. Recording me with their phones, calling others over. A laughing stock, an obscene spectacle. I had never had a gay experience or even a conscious lust for other guys but in this fantasy I was being watched by other men. The object of their disdain and ridicule.
I thought of my whole naked body, what a man would see if he caught me in my compromised position. My lowered head, my back, my taut butt cheeks. My naughty backside, startlingly white even against my pale skin. My flexing calves, my pumping shoulder. Caught red-handed.
I opened my eyes and looked down, letting the shower stream massage my scalp and the nape of my neck, and stared at my aching pecker. Not the longest or thickest, but right now surely the hungriest. Its usual pink was radiating magenta, ready to burst. I continued to tease it with my palm.
"One-handed bachelor sex," I had once heard masturbation called. Spanking the monkey, slapping the salami, choking the chicken. Even the descriptions made it seem ridiculous, buffoonish. I luxuriated in it, the lewdness of it. Playing with my pud in public. I spread my feet wider and stuck my rear end out, almost going into a squat position, wiggling my hips as I slowly stroked my cock. I wanted to feel as perverted as possible. And I wanted to be caught in the act.
I moaned out, quiet and hesitant at first and then echoing around in the stall loudly. A goonish groan of self-pleasure. I reached the precipice of orgasm, one hand furiously whacking off while the other stimulated with my nipples. For the next few minutes I closed my eyes and lost myself to my outrageous fantasy, keeping myself on edge and panting like a dog.
"What the hell are you doing over there, boy? Jacking off?!" A harsh voice broke my onanistic revery. I turned to see a shirtless, heavyset old man prying open the stall doors and stomping inside. I released my stiffy and it swung around wildly, smacking against my lower stomach. As he battered his way through the doors things seemed to move in slow motion, like my brain was shutting down from the mortification of actually being discovered like this.
I tried to turn from him but as he stepped into the stall, there was no way to hide my boner. He pointed at my groin, the narrow rocket of flesh, and yelled.
"I knew it! You goddamn pervert! You nasty little jerk off!" He grabbed my shoulder, turning me towards him and exposing my erect penis. I quickly tried to cover my crotch but he slapped my hands away. I lowered my head in shame and stuttered an apology.
The wide-set man angrily shushed me. He kept one hand locked on my bicep, and reached over with the other to turn the shower off. He was in my space, crowding me. His densely furred bare chest scraped against my torso. I nervously took a better look at him.
The man was in his mid-60s, solidly built with a sizable and hairy belly. He had a naturally sour face, thick lips pursed peevishly, glowering eyes with deep dark rings beneath them. He had bushy, overgrown eyebrows and a thick walrus mustache under his bulbous nose. I recognized him but didn't know his name - he was just one of the stern-faced older men who made up the primary clientele of the club.
He just wore a pair of white tennis shorts, showing off a wide barrel chest. He had the heavy, wooly breast of advanced manhood, a peppery black and gray pelt that put my mostly bare chest to shame. In that moment of supreme exposure my mind somehow made room to feel a jolt of self-consciousness at how much hairier he was than me. My pecs had only the lightest of coats, while the old man was carpeted. He was an inch or so shorter than me but outweighed me for sure, probably by at least 40 lbs, and I could sense his strength as he wrangled me out of the shower stall.
