Locker Room Talk

I don't recognise him at first glance.

In my defence, he's changed a whole lot from my last memory of him. When he moves past me to the free squat rack--broad shoulders brushing against mine--I'm pretty sure I've never seen him before in my life. I wish I had thought. He's handsome in that square-jawed athlete kind of way, his racer vest cut low enough that I can see a dusting of dark hair on his pecs.

The small town of San Mosvir is full of community spirit but low on the kind of guys that draw my attention. Carefully--because I have a wife at home and a hometown that doesn't need to know I'm gay--I take up residence at the bench closest to him. He grunts as he lifts, and I have to suppress a sharp breath when I think about him making those sounds even closer to me.

It's only after three sets--when he gets up, wipes himself down with a towel, and heads to the water fountain, where I follow--that I notice it. The tattoo of a phoenix on the back of his arm.

"Holy shit," I whisper to myself. "That's Kowalski. She's a guy now."

I wasn't always kind to Kowalski. Actually, that's putting it mildly. I was cruel as fuck to Kowalski. I was even more closeted in high school than I am now, and willing to defend myself and my reputation to the death. Kowalski--the broadly built and butch as hell star of the girls' rugby team--was the perfect target for it. She was an easy target, too obvious to hide who we all thought she clearly was, physical education theory classes leaving her in close proximity when somebody got a little too close to my truth.

There'd always been something in the way she looked at me when I did it. Something that wasn't quite angry. Pity, disgust, sadness perhaps, but not angry. Maybe she'd always been able to look at me and know exactly why I was bullying her, and thought I was a coward for it.

The last I'd heard of Kowalski though, she'd left town for college and never looked back. There'd not been much for her here, I suppose. But before she left in that last summer, I'd heard a rumour she'd got a tattoo. A big one too.

And here I am--ten years later--looking at it and her. Or... looking at him, I suppose.

And fuck, he's something to look at. That's why--despite knowing who he is and what I once did to him, and that he has every right to be furious at me--I walk up to him.

"Hey," a voice says, and I realise it's mine. My mouth feels dry and my hands clammy, my heart pounding quickly and not just from exercise. I feel like a teenager trying to talk to their crush, foolish and desperate in equal measure. "Kowalski, is that you? You look... wow."

Kowalski stops drinking, but when he lowers the bottle a little water still drips from his mouth down to his chin. He looks at me with narrowed eyes that drift up and down my body, like he's trying to figure me out.

"I recognised from the tattoo," I offer. "Wouldn't have guessed otherwise."

His eyes become less narrow, but he still eyes me with suspicion, and his voice is ice cold when he speaks to me. "Cody Owens. Haven't seen you in a long time."

Even though he's a few inches shorter than my 6'1, something about his presence makes it feel like he's towering over me. His muscles are tensed, like he's either ready to flee or attack if I say the wrong thing. And I don't blame the guy, given what I put him through. But I want to make him feel more easy, want to offer him an olive branch that shows I've changed.

"Guess you're going by a different name now."

He is, as it turns out, going by Eric now. He still looks at me with a little hesitation, but his muscles relax a little as he talks to me. He left town after graduating, and moved to the big city. He's back in town for a month or so to help his parents with their move. He doesn't know if he'll be back again except for holidays. His words are a little strained as he speaks and his polite smile doesn't reach his eyes. But I want to keep listening to him, want him to keep talking, and in my want I ignore those warning signs.

"I'll see you around, I guess." I don't know how the offer will be received, but I want to try anyway. Kowalski-- Eric, I need to remember to call him Eric--shrugs noncommittally.

"Sure, maybe."

I turn on the balls of my feet and start to head back to the weight rack. And then, a few steps later, I realise I want to say one more thing. I turn back over my shoulder to look at Eric, uncomfortably shuffling his weight between his legs.

"Hey Eric. Are we... are we good?"

I'm not sure why I'm asking. I know what I did and I know what the answer probably is, and yet I ask anyway. Maybe I want Eric Kowalski to help melt away the last bits of guilt I have, maybe I want help to ignore the parts of his past that don't suit the man that stands in front of me, maybe I just want a connection with the one other person in this town who I know for sure isn't completely straight. Whatever it is, Eric's eyes go ice cold.

"Cody," his voice drips with venom. "Do you think we're good?"

I deserve it. I know I deserve it. I knew what I did to Kowalski was wrong, even back then. But it's not until he looks at me like I'm dirt under his shoe that I really, truly feel guilty for it. It hits me all at once, like a wave, twisting something in my gut and I drop my eyes to the ground to avoid looking him in the eye any more.

Shit. I really hurt the guy.

I get through the rest of my workout, but I'm still thinking about that and him the whole time. I'm still thinking about it when I go to the locker room, pull my towel from my gym bag, strip down, and head to the showers. The water is hot, making my skin flush when it hits it, and the room is quickly filled with nearly-opaque steam.

I'm half way through soaping myself down when I hear the locker room door swing open. There's a distant grunt and the rattle of lockers being opened, but I don't think much of it. At least I don't until I see a shadow through the steam, moving slowly towards me.

Eric Kowalski scowls when he sees me, his jaw muscles clenching. The towel is still wrapped around his waist, but he's still even more exposed than he was in that racer vest. He's built everywhere, an Adonis made out of protein shakes and low carb intake. I have to strain to see them under the soft dark hair over his chest, but a pair of faded scars cup his pectoral muscles.

"You're staring, Cody", he says, pulling me back to reality. His voice is just as dripping with cold anger as it was by the water fountain, and I'm torn between very real fear and the way my traitorous, exposed cock is responding to his words. "Just like you stared at Brett Caddel after that game in senior year. Or at least, that's what the rumour was, wasn't it Cody?"

I swallow. It's true. I know it's true. And I know what I did to take the heat off myself.

Eric takes a step towards me, and I find my back presses up against the cold tile of the shower.

"Wasn't. It. Cody." He says it with more anger this time, each word individually punctuated, near hissed through clenched teeth.

"Yes. Yes it was."

Eric smiles, cruel and in a way that doesn't reach his eyes, like I'm an animal backing himself into a cage.

"It's so weird Cody. Right after I heard about that rumour, a new one went around. That the previous one was mistaken, and it was actually me who'd been perving on my teammates. Very weird coincidence that rumour sprung up. Weirder coincidence that the rumour was I'd been checking out your girlfriend Jessica Miller specifically."

Even though Kowalski is shorter than me, it feels like he looms over me as he takes another step forward. There's only a few steps distance between us now, and I have nowhere to run.

When I say nothing, Eric continues.

"I heard you married her, by the way. Cute, doing the whole 'football star marrying your high school sweetheart, settling down in your hometown' thing. Does she know you're a fa--"

"Don't."

It comes out of me on instinct. Sharp, painful instinct. Eric looks surprised for a second. But just for a second. Than that smile is back, and his eyes narrow.

"Oh, is it harder to be a fag now you don't have a dyke around to take your anger out on?"

I let out a slow, heavy breath, trying to control it and my body. My hands shake slightly, my heady is cloudy and fuzzy and unfocused, and I can feel my half-hard cock press against my thigh. Kowalski must notice it too when he glances down, and then takes another menacing step forward.

"What do you want, Kowalski?" I manage.

He laughs. "We're back to Kowalski now, huh? And here I was thinking the 'Eric' meant we were getting all friendly."

He's close enough now that he doesn't need to stretch out his arm to grab hold of one of my wrists. His fingers are tight around me, squeezing hard enough that I gasp at the pain a little. That's a mistake. Seeing an opportunity, he reaches for my other wrists, pushes his body against mine so that my wrists are pinned to the wall and his thigh is pressed up against my cock, and refuses to let go.

I wriggle, trying to free myself. But I can't. Kowalski is stronger than me, and no matter how much I struggle I can't push him off.

"You know something fun about injecting my own testosterone?" Kowalski says, his voice not even a little strained, like holding me down isn't even a light jog's worth of effort for him. The shower-head is soaking the towel he still wears around his waist, but he doesn't seem to notice, let alone care. "Even if I keep my levels within a natural range--which I do--I get to control exactly when my peaks are. And my levels don't get fucked up by ageing, like yours do."

Even though I know it's futile--and I can feel dread settling into the pit of my stomach--I try to squirm.

"What do you want, Kowalski?" I ask again, panic rising in my throat. And, again, he smiles.

"I want revenge, Cody. I want you to feel as ashamed and used as you made me feel. Then, maybe, we'll be good."

He shifts so that one hand is pinning both my wrists above my head, and slowly caresses my cheek with his newly-freed hand. It's a gentle gesture, more soft than I expect, perhaps more tender than I deserve. But I only have a moment to think about that before his hands are as cruel as they previously were kind, grasping my jaw and squeezing with strong fingers.

"You're lucky," he muses. "I did think about taking my strap-on out of my bag this morning. Figured this town didn't have a gym as cruise-y as I'm used to. But I brought it, my big one too."

His thick thigh presses into my cock, at first just enough that it gets hard, and then pressing a little too much, enough that it begins to hurt. Despite myself, I let out a small whimper, and Kowalski squeezes my face a little harder.

"Don't whine, Cody. I know how you've been looking at me. You'll enjoy that more than you deserve to. There's only one thing you have to do before you get to be bent over and fucked open by a fat cock, just like you pretend you don't dream about."

I shouldn't want this. I should be wriggling still, yelling for help, calling Kowalski a pervert like I had no issues doing back in the day. But I don't. I can't. It's freeing, almost, to know there's no point in fighting back. There's no point in putting up any kind of facade that I don't want this, that my cock isn't rock hard, that my body isn't already shivering with anticipation at being worked open by this man's massive strapped-on cock. There's nothing to be gained by trying to save face.

So instead of protesting, I say, "What do you want me to do?"

Kowalski drops his hand from my wrists, but they stay in place up against the tile. The hand that was squeezing my face moves to my hair, fingers digging through my short hair and grasping me by the roots. His newly-free hand moves to his now-soaked towel, toys with the knot that holds it in place. Right as the hand on my head pushes me down--so I have no choice but to end up on my knees in front of him--the towel drops to the floor.

"Before I fuck you, I'm going to make you suck my cock," he says, smirking down at me. "Make you worship my holes, smother you until you can't fucking breathe."

I'm face to face with his cock when he says that. And it is a cock. The rest of his genitals look like a pussy, but what must have once been a clit is so large and thick and hard that I can't look at it and see anything but a cock. My mouth waters at the sight of it, just like it has done ever other time I've been face to face with another man's dick before, and I have just enough time to get my bearings when the hand on my head pushes me forwards, forcing my mouth around it.

It's smaller than the few cocks I've had in my mouth previously, in glory holes and hurried hookups in gas-station bathrooms. Two, maybe three inches long. But with all the energy and ferocity Kowalski uses to fuck me with it, I don't even miss the feeling of a cock hitting my throat. His hips push me backwards when they move, until my head is pinned up against the wall, just like my hands were moments ago. He's wet--dripping wet--and between that and the shower overhead I start to worry I'll drown.

"That's it," he purrs. "That's it you asshole. Take my cock like you know you want to."

His hips change angle. It's just a slight difference, but it's enough that when his hips buck again, my face is buried in his crotch. He keeps thrusting, pushing his cock into my mouth, but never pulls back enough that I'm not being smothered in his pussy. I whimper into him, trying not to think about how good it feels to just have my lips and mouth and tongue used.

"Bet you dreamed of getting your face fucked like this in the football locker rooms." Kowalski's breathing is quick and heavy, but he still sounds so powerful when he speaks. "And you were so fucking ashamed of it too, knowing what a faggot you were deep down. Didn't have the fucking balls to admit you wanted the rest of the team to empty theirs down your throat."

He punctuates the last bit with an extra rough thrust, and my head knocks against the tile. I'm dazed for a moment, my head spinning. And Kowalski takes the opportunity to lift a leg up, angle his body so almost my entire face is buried against him, holding me so firmly in place I won't be able to move if I need to take a breath.

My cock is so hard that it hurts. Instinctively, I reach down, desperate to touch myself, but I'm cut off before I even start to gently stroke myself.

"Don't you fucking dare. You're not here for that. You're here for me. You're here for what I want. And you know what I want, Cody?"

He pulls back, leaving me gasping for air. I shake my head, too suffocated to say anything.

"I said, you know what I want, Cody?"

I look up, try to meet Kowalski's eyes. On my knees in front of him, I feel smaller than I've ever felt before. His thick, muscular thighs are on either side of my head, and I can't help but wonder what if would be like if he wrapped those around my neck and squeezed.

"What do you want, Kowalski?"

The hand that's still in my hair gently strokes me, like I'm a pet too stupid to know better.

"I want to have got to be a normal teenager. I want to have worried about who I was asking to prom and how to pass notes subtly in class, not about if some jock too chickshit to admit his whole deal was going to pick on me this week and how to make sure I stayed sane long enough to get out of this godforsaken shitty town. But I don't get to have that, no matter how bad I want it. So I'll settle for fucking you and fucking you up. Seems fair. Maybe somebody will even walk in on us and San Mosvir will finally see you for what you really are."

I'd almost forgotten how exposed we are. With Eric Kowalski's hands on me and his cock in my mouth and the air full of steam, it was easy to think of the world just existing in this space. But anybody could walk in, at any moment, and see me like this. The thought--of what it'd do to my reputation not just at this gym but in the whole town, because people talk--makes my head spin with nausea.

And yet... fuck. Wouldn't it be nice, in a way? Wouldn't it be nice to let go of all pretence, just like I let go of it all when I let Kowalski push me up against the tiles and fuck me. Wouldn't it be...

No. No, no, no. I have a wife waiting for me back home, friends and family who'll never speak to me again if this gets out. No matter how hot the idea of somebody walking in and seeing me get used--maybe even joining in using my mouth, and fuck if that idea doesn't make my cock jolt--is, I can't let it happen. So I use the one bit of leverage I have.

"If they see me, they'll see you too. They'll know you have... they'll know you're a... an in-between."

It's meant to hurt and in the moment when I say it, I hope it does. A moment later, and the guilt hits me. I guess, in more ways than I want to admit, I'm exactly the same person I was all those years ago.

Kowalski has changed though, even if I haven't. He doesn't look upset, doesn't look offended, doesn't look anything but bored. He pulls my hair, sharply and roughly and quickly enough that it hurts.

"I might be an in-between, but I'm still more man than you are, Cody Owens. And, unlike you, I don't have anything to lose. This whole town can burn to the ground for all I care, I don't give a shit if a handful of people know I have a pussy. But you... you've got your whole perfect fake life to protect."

Kowalski looks at me expectantly, but I keep my mouth shut. There's nothing more to say. He's won.

"Do you still want my forgiveness Cody?" he asks, in a tone of voice that makes it really clear what he actually means is 'I know exactly how bad you want me to keep going, and I know how much you hate yourself for it'.

"So badly, Kowalski," I say, and if I phrase it like that I can pretend it's really about being forgiven. "Please."

There's a moment's pause, and then Kowalski lets go of me and turns his back on me. He takes a step, disappearing into the mist, and I don't understand what's happening. Not until he returns.

It takes me a second to realise that what Kowalski is wearing isn't just a jock-strap. The black fabric clings tightly to his muscular body, and as he steps back towards me, the huge silicone cock strapped in it bounces with each movement.

"If you want my forgiveness, you're going to have to earn it."

I've only been fucked in the ass once before. It's been difficult to find the opportunity to. Blowjobs I can get and give quickly and with no preparation, but getting fucked in the ass has felt like it needs more time, more privacy. It hasn't helped that my wife would discover any attempt I made at anal training at home and god, I can't risk Jessica thinking I'm a freak. The one time I managed it was on a business trip to a nearby city. A nervous visit to a sex shop, an anonymous hotel room, and a few messages on an app later, and a man had pushed his cock into my hole for the first time.

But that man's cock hadn't been anywhere near as big as Kowalski's thick silicone one. Even after he empties a sachet of lube into me and works my ass open with his hands, I'm tight enough that it burns a little as he pushes inside me. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself from crying out, try not to whimper at the feeling, try not to think about how good it feels when he's finally buried in me to the base.

Kowalski's hands are warm as they clasp around my hips, and the shower tile I'm pressed up against is cool on my forehead. When he starts to thrust, he pulls me back onto himself, making me take his silicone dick to the base. There's a loud wet sound with each movement from the lube inside my hole, and it's barely covered by the noise of the shower, still running. There's a growing warmth in my body, not just from where Kowalski's hands are on me but pooling in my stomach. My hard cock--and I know it should be soft, that I shouldn't enjoy this, but I'm so hard it near hurts--presses into my belly, and when Kowalski changes the angle he's thrusting at and grinds against my sensitive prostate, my cock leaks precum.