My First Job in a Sports Shop

I'd just started at the sports shop, my first job since getting back from a year of travelling. It wasn't one of those chain stores on the high street; this place had character, tucked away off a quieter street. Geoff, the owner, was chilled, older. He'd been a professional footballer back in the day and let us wear whatever team shirt we wanted, giving us a huge discount on kit. It felt more like a clubhouse than a shop.

Thursday nights were late closing, and usually dead quiet. That night, around half seven, he walked in.

Older guy. Rugged. Confident. The kind of build you could tell used to be athletic, still carried the shape of it in his shoulders and chest. Salt-and-pepper beard. Fitted jeans. Eyes that locked with mine just a moment longer than casual.

"Hey," he said, "heard you've got the new Man U kits in."

I nodded. "Only just came in this morning. We haven't even hung them up yet."

"You got XL? Maybe XXL?" he asked, voice low, a bit rough around the edges.

"I'll grab both," I said, already turning toward the back. "You can try 'em on, see what fits best." He gave me a slow, deliberate smile. "Sounds perfect."

I grabbed both sizes and led him to the changing area, pointing him to the last cubicle at the end of the corridor. He thanked me, disappearing behind the curtain.

A few minutes passed. Then five.

I wandered back to check on him. As I neared the end of the hallway, I noticed the curtain wasn't pulled all the way shut. There was just enough of a gap.

And what I saw made me freeze.

He was in the shirt, tight over his chest, sleeves hugging his arms. But his jeans and briefs were down around his knees. He was turned slightly toward the mirror, one hand gripping his thick, hard cock, stroking it slowly, the other holding his phone, filming himself. His lips were parted, chest rising and falling with each breath.

I couldn't move, heat flooding my body. He caught my gaze in the mirror, didn't flinch, didn't cover up. Instead, he grinned like he'd been waiting for me to look, to catch him in the act.

"Like what you see?" he murmured, stroking his thick shaft with slow, confident strokes. I stepped closer, heartbeat pounding, eyes locked on his in the mirror.

The air between us felt heavy with something unspoken but undeniable.

I reached out and curled my fingers around the edge of the curtain. "Mind if I come in?" I asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

His smirk deepened. "Sure, why not". I slipped inside, pulling the curtain fully closed behind me. We were barely two feet apart in the cramped space, his scent, spicy, warm cotton, something masculine, hit me instantly.

He didn't stop stroking. If anything, he slowed down, teasing himself as I watched. The new United shirt clung to his chest, rising and falling with each breath, his thick thighs flexing as he shifted his weight slightly.

I let my eyes roam over him, from his flushed face to his sticky, dripping cock.

"Fuck," I muttered, breath catching. He looked up at me again, eyes dark with heat. "You gonna just watch?" he said, voice deep, gravelly.

My heart was thudding like a drum. The heat in that cramped space had a pulse of its own. Every breath felt heavy, every second stretched taut between us. The air was humming with tension, with possibility.

His eyes raked down my body, slow and unashamed, then rose to meet mine. He kept stroking himself with steady, unhurried confidence, and gave me a nod. His voice came low, coaxing.

"Go on," he said. "Let me see you." I hesitated. My mouth opened but all I could manage was a breath, maybe a whimper. "I'm not... I don't really... you know."

"You don't what?" he asked, brow raised, lips twitching.

"...Masturbate," I admitted, my voice barely audible.

He chuckled, not mocking, just amused, surprised. "Damn. You've been missing out." He took a step forward, slow and sure. "How about I help you out? If it's not your thing, we stop. Simple."

I nodded, too caught up to speak. My whole body trembled as he reached for the waistband of my shorts. His hands were firm but patient, easing them down, briefs sliding with them. I stood there, exposed, breath shallow, already hard. The air was cool against my skin, but my body burned. His eyes darkened as they took me in, a flick of his tongue wetting his lips. "Fuck, yeah," he muttered. "Come here."

I staggered closer until there was barely any space between us. Our cocks almost touched, the heat rolling off his body washing over me. Then he reached out, his hand big and warm. He wrapped it around both of us in one confident grip, thick fingers sliding over our lengths together. That first stroke knocked the air from my lungs. The sensation, slick, raw and hot was dizzying.

He groaned, deep and rough. "That's it. You feel that?"

I nodded, barely able to breathe, let alone speak. He set the pace slow at first, teasing, deliberate. I watched the way his hand moved, watched the way his jaw clenched, the tension building in his shoulders. My own hand joined his, tentative at first, then firmer, adding pressure, speed. We found a rhythm, hips shifting, bodies brushing. The friction was unbearable.

His eyes stayed on mine, hooded, dark with want. "You close?" he growled, voice thick in my ear. "I think so," I gasped. "Yeah."

His grip tightened, stroking harder, faster. The sound of skin slick with heat, the sharp, ragged edge of our breath, it all blurred together. Pressure built fast and sharp, until it finally broke. I came hard, pulse stuttering as my body jerked into his. His cum followed seconds later, spilling between us as we gasped and groaned, clutching each other through it.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Just the sound of our breath, skin still flushed and sticky, hearts pounding, ribbons of both our cum dripping from the bottom of his shirt.

Then he laughed, low and breathless. "Guess I'll be buying the shirt then"