The Gym Janitor Ch. 01

NOTICE: All characters in this story are above the age of 18. Never practice this foreplay unless there is formal consent by any party involved.

***

Fuck Kyle. Fuck everything about him. Imagine promising a 10% raise to anyone willing to work the night shift, and not coming through with it?

I can quit. That'll leave him in shambles knowing his precious facility will look like shit cause no one reracks their weights let alone throw away any water bottles or rags they've used.

I can quit. But I don't want to. Sure the hours are shit, I hardly get the daytime to do anything aside from sleeping. There's just nothing interesting happening in my life right now for me to risk being unemployed.

You see it'd be easy to clean during the day and simply pick up after people when the gym is busy. But, Kyle says that it's distracting to gym members when someone is constantly interrupting their workout...? Regardless, it pans out since hardly anyone works out during the ass crack of midnight.

Only a small amount of people have decided to be crazy enough to get a work out in during the few weeks that I've started working night shift. But on other nights it's me and the front desk worker who is 95% of the time just knocked out over the counter. Having to check in every time you enter the gym, I always just nod to the few that come in in approval once they see that she's asleep.

The speakers are blasting with music. My coworker is once again sleeping. I could do the same and fall asleep in my supply closet and clean up during my last hour before the day gets started but here I am wiping down dry sweat stains from workout machines.

Usually the place is a mess but I guess people found the decency to clean up after themselves.

The facility being in a suburban area has a repertoire of customers usually consisted of wanna be pro athlete high schoolers, the rarely occasional fitness influencer, cross fitters, powerlifters, or older people who let themselves go after having children.

On night shifts however. Your small handful will consist of dedicated professional bodybuilders and beginners who start strong by aching their body before they eventually wear themselves out and give up. Usually the latter.

I have witnessed so many people commence their journey yet fail after pushing it too far by coming to the gym during hours they're not used to.

On the flip side, you'll have him.

I see him come into the gym during the last few hours of my shift. Probably the only consistent early morning gym goer at this facility.

And it shows.

The early bird really does get the worm because for each day of the week he not only works out a specific muscle group but he uses EVERY piece of equipment we have for that muscle group to his advantage since no one is there for the taking.

Mondays he starts off strong with legs. I witness him pressing thrice his weight over his shoulders and placing his ass to grass every single rep. Then using the entire midsection of the gym floor to lunge that same weight as if he was carrying a simple feather.

His quads and ass double in size after it all. And I can easily tell which machine he heads to next because after each set, he leaves a trail of glorious sweat behind him on the floor and on each seat.

I would know because I have to clean it.

He sweats so much the one rag I use gets soaked just with his sweat alone.

One morning after I was done cleaning after him, I was feeling a bit exhausted not trusting myself behind the wheel if drove home.

They offer protein coffee at the snack bar but even then that shit tastes chalky.

Even if I was too tired, I still did not want to risk losing this shitty job so I tried my best. After collecting all of my cleaning supplies I was dispensing the used rags into the laundry bin in my utility closet.

HIS rag was just...sitting there.

Amongst the pile of rags used, his stood out like a sore thumb. We'll mainly because he is almost always the last gym goer before the full circuit day begins.

You see most simple either wipe their forehead, hands, neck, or each equipment they use and will only leave it 1/10 as soaked as he does.

And in that moment something over came my aura. Pure adrenaline started flowing through me. My hands reached out over the bin - shaking in awe.

Was I really going to do this?

Yes.

I lifted the filthy rag to eye level. The mechanism of my hands imitating a claw in a prize machine. Slowly and surely I brought the prize closer to me.

At just an arm's distance the musk infiltrated the chamber of my nostrils, getting stronger and stronger.

And then.

Fabric to skin. I took a big whiff.

FUCK.

There are certain smells in life that are socially frowned upon but that people privately are enamored with such as the smell of diesel or a sharpie marker. THIS would be at the top of my fucking list. Sweat.

But not just any sweat, it has to be specific. Like that hot athletic football player that passes by you after their game and it smells entrancing not like some random transient you're sitting next to on the public transport.

Wanting more, I dug in for seconds.

With every volume in my lungs I soaked in the essence as much as I could. This isn't a typical athlete's sweat, this is fucking testosterone in liquid form.

It was incredibly difficult to keep the filthy rag from being pressed up against my nose. Each time I think I'd had enough my instinct won over me and kept sniffing.

Then it occurred to me. What the fuck was I doing? What if the next shift's clean up caught me in the act?

I had to get my shit together.

I set the rag down back at the top of the pile. I reached up for the cabinet to get the detergent.

Closing the cabinet door somehow, I jammed my thumb between the crack.

A loud thud filled the room when I let go of the detergent.

"Shit!"

All of the solvent was spilled on the floor, fuck!

Annoyed, I sucked on my jammed finger.

And then.

With no hesitation my tongue dance over the palm of my hand, lathering it up with my spit.

Why the fuck does my hand taste good? It's not like a savory or sweet type of taste. It was definitely a bit sour but the kind of sour that makes your throat tingle.

The rag. OF COURSE!!!

Holding the rag left remnants of sweat over my hands. I walked over to the bin and right where I left it I picked up the rag, this time with no hesitation.

As if I was programmed or had it hardwired in me I brought the rag to my mouth. At an instance I immediately started sucking on the fabric.

Oozing of sweat, rationing out the saliva in my mouth. The sensation of knowing it was HIS sweat that I was consuming directly traversed to my crotch.

It was as if the substance consisted of pure sex drive, each intake driving me more and more into a state of heightened pleasure.

A tent in my pants started forming. I had to let it out because it felt as if my cock grew twice the size that it normally is when erect.

I pulled my cock out and watched it spring full out of my zipper like a toy Jack in the Box.

Leaking from the tip was gooey precum that dripped down the side of my shaft.

I looked back at the rag and thought 'if just his sweat is making me do this, imagine the real thing?'

I continued to suffocate myself and stuffing the rag inside my mouth. Each second sucking on the justices in the fabric made the mixture of my saliva and sweat created a sensation in my mouth that left such a sweet aftertaste making me crave more and more.

My hand held my cock, slowly wrapping itself up and down as I kept momentum. With each deep inhale and suck of the rag, I kept stroking harder and faster.

I closed my eyes picturing all types of wrong.

Him standing over me.

Me kneeling with my mouth open and pointed up.

Every drop of his sweat landing all over my tongue, coating it with the best flavor of all time.

Him wiping his torso down, hands over his pit, then with a smirk showing his fingers down my throat.

With that picture alone, the pent up frustration in my crotch made it's exit through the tip of my cock.

The slit of my cock oozing out ounces and ounces of the byproduct of his glorious sweat filling every crevice of my mouth.

Once I was eased, I used the same rag to wipe off the cum from the floor, wiping away my shame.

Because what the fuck was I doing? I don't like men. I never once pictured jerking it to any guy before. I had to get out of there.

My doubts on sexuality were cleared when I left my utility closet.

Walking down the gym's midsection with the same image every Monday morning, he lunged with his ass bulging a behemoth amount of weight.

Fuck.

Yeah.

I realized for him? I definitely would abandon anyone else.

***

Recalling this instance of pleasure.

In comes in the muscle god of my dreams.