Two hundred and forty-five pounds on the barbell.
The gym was basically empty—ten minutes to midnight on a rainy Thursday, the neon clock over the front desk buzzing softly in the silence. I was in my high-waisted black compression shorts that hugged my thighs and an oversized sleeveless drop-arm tank that showed my ribs every time I racked the weight.
Marcus had been watching from the cable machine for forty-five minutes.
Marcus is six-foot-two, former college safety, shoulders like a brick fireplace, always wears a beat-up backwards cap and cut-off grey fleece. A straight guy’s straight guy. The kind of dude who talks about creatine timing and his fantasy football waiver wire like they’re holy scripture.
When I stepped under the bar for my final working set, he didn’t even ask. He just dropped his cable attachment, walked over in his heavy training shoes, and stepped right in behind me.
“Ass to grass,” he said, his voice deep and raspy from the workout. “I got you.”
On rep three, I stalled at the bottom. The steel bar dug into my traps, my thighs shaking, and before my knees could buckle, Marcus’s chalked hands clamped hard onto my hips.
Not a polite spot. His broad palms gripped the flesh of my waist through the thin spandex, hauling me up with his own chest pressed flush against my back, his crotch grinding heavy against my ass for the two brutal seconds it took to rack the iron.
“Racked,” he panted against my neck.
I turned around, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my collarbone. He was staring right at the outline of my thighs, his eyes dark, his breathing heavy.
“Good set,” he muttered, wiping sweat off his temple with his forearm, and then turned and walked straight into the back locker room.
I waited three seconds, grabbed my water bottle, and followed him.
The back locker room was deserted. The overhead fluorescents flickered, and the air smelled like cedarwood, damp towels, and the dry eucalyptus heat seeping from the sauna down the hall.
Marcus was standing at his locker with his shirt already off, broad lats glistening, untying his lifting shoes. The moment the heavy fire door clicked shut behind me, he stopped.
He spun around in three long strides.
His forearm slammed flat against the locker right beside my ear.
The cold steel vibrated behind my skull. He boxed me in with his massive frame, smelling like hot skin, iron weights, and Old Spice deodorant. His other hand reached down without hesitation, gripping the front of my compression shorts, feeling the hard, unmistakable outline of my cock tenting the fabric.
“You knew what you were doing with those shorts out there,” he growled, leaning in so close his stubble brushed my cheek.
“I was just doing squats, Marcus.”
“Bullshit.” He squeezed my cock through the nylon, hard enough to make a breathless whimper escape my mouth. “You were sticking your ass in my face every damn set. Been driving me crazy for three weeks.”
“You could have stayed by the cables.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He leaned down and kissed me like he was trying to tear something open. It was rough, bruised, all tongue and heavy teeth, asserting dominance while his hips shoved forward, pinning me flat against the locker door. The hard ridge in his workout shorts was huge, pressing right between my thighs.
He didn’t apologize. He just dragged his thumb across his lower lip.
“On your knees,” he commanded, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying locker-room rasp. “Right now.”
I dropped to my knees on the heavy black rubber mat.
The floor was cold against my bare shins. Marcus kicked his sneakers off and yanked his athletic shorts down in one violent jerk. His cock sprang out against his washboard abs, thick, heavy, red-flushed, and twitching with pure testosterone.
“Take it,” he said, his fingers threading through my hair, gripping tight at the roots. “Show me what you do.”
I didn’t hesitate. I wrapped both hands around his thick base and took the flared head past my lips.
He tasted like salt and adrenaline, musky and uncut in its heat. Marcus groaned—a raw, guttural sound that rattled his chest—and shoved his hips forward, burying half his length down my throat in one stroke. I gagged softly around his girth, my eyes tearing up, but I swallowed around him, working my tongue along the thick underside vein.
“Fuck, man… Jesus, look at you,” he panted, looking down at me between his legs. “You’re so fucking pretty on your knees. Take more.”
He started fucking my mouth with short, aggressive pumps, holding my head still while his thighs flexed with every stroke. The wet slapping sounds echoed off the steel lockers. He was breathing like he was running wind sprints, his knuckles white against my jaw, his hips driving in deeper and deeper until the tip hit the back of my throat.
He shuddered, his head falling back against the metal vent.
“Stop. Stop, bro, I’m gonna lose it.”
He hauled me up by my armpits before I could swallow him whole. His eyes were completely glazed over, dark pupils eating the green of his irises. He reached into his gym duffel on the bench, pulled out a small travel tube of coconut oil and a single foil packet, and tore the wrapper with his teeth.
“Turn around,” he breathed. “Bent over the cedar bench, grip the edge.”
I did what I was told. I bent over the wide wooden bench, planting my hands flat against the polished cedar, pushing my ass back toward him. Marcus grabbed the waistband of my compression shorts and dragged them down to my knees with my socks, leaving my smooth, rounded cheeks bare and trembling in the cold air.
He coated his fingers in the oil, stepping between my parted thighs.
“You done this before?” he asked, his palm smacking my ass once with a sharp crack that sent fire through my skin.
“Yes—Marcus, please—”
He shoved two slick fingers inside me in one firm, decisive push.
I cried out into the empty room, my back arching, my fingers gripping the cedar edge until my knuckles ached. He didn’t waste time; he pumped his fingers with brutal, athletic efficiency, stretching me wide, curling upward until he rubbed that hot, swollen knot deep inside. Pre-cum was dripping off my cock onto the rubber flooring below.
“Loose enough,” he muttered, his voice ragged with impatience.
He pulled his fingers free and rolled the rubber down over his thick shaft. He stepped tight against my thighs, his heavy hairy chest coming down over my smooth back, the sheer heat of his body pressing me flat against the cedar.
He lined himself up and pushed into me.
The head stretched me to my absolute limit. I choked on a sob as the girth forced its way past my rim, burning and full, before he sank all the way to the root in one deep, agonizingly slow slide.
“Fuck,” Marcus cursed into my ear, his hips pressing tight against my cheeks. “You’re so damn tight. Feels like a fucking vice.”
“Marcus,” I gasped, my forehead resting on the wood. “Move.”
He shoved my hips down against the cedar bench, lined himself up, and drove in.
He fucked me like an athlete. Long, powerful, relentless strokes that shook the entire wooden bench. The rhythmic thud of his pelvis slamming against my ass was deafening in the tiled room. Every thrust hit my prostate dead-on, sending electric shocks straight up my spine until I was begging and cursing into the wood.
“Take it,” he grunted, one hand reaching around to grip my throat, keeping me pinned down while his hips hammered into me. “Taking a straight guy’s cock like a good little slut. You like this, huh?”
“Yes! Fuck, Marcus, yes!”
He picked up the pace, his breathing turning into ragged shouts, the sweat from his chest dripping down onto my shoulder blades. I couldn’t even touch myself—the friction of his thick cock hitting that spot inside me was so overwhelming that my own dick was pumping pre-cum in thick spurts onto the floor with every impact.
“I’m coming,” he snarled, his grip on my hip bruising. “Take it, take all of it!”
With three vicious, deep slams, he buried himself to the hilt and locked his hips forward, groaning like a wounded animal into the back of my neck as he poured himself into me.
The shockwave pushed me completely over the edge. I screamed into the bench, my whole body convulsing as my orgasm erupted without a single hand touching me, shooting hot ropes of cum across the black mat in violent pulses.
We stayed frozen like that, panting, the smell of sweat, rubber, and sex hanging heavy in the room.
Marcus slowly pulled out and stepped back, breathing heavily. He stripped the condom, tied it, tossed it into the metal wastebasket, and yanked his gym shorts back up.
He looked down at me, still trembling on the bench with my shorts around my knees. A slow, cocky smirk broke across his face—the same bro from the squat rack, just with flushed cheeks and dark eyes.
He slapped my ass once, hard.
“Nice workout,” he said, grabbing his duffel bag off the locker hook. “See you Monday for chest.”
He pushed the locker room door open and walked out, leaving me shivering on the cedar bench, completely wrecked.
