The Pool


That summer, I had just turned twenty and I should have been having the time of my life.

But I wasn't. I was solitary, I was studying all the time and I was finding it impossible to connect with people. When I wasn't working I was walking the streets, watching couples canoodling with each other and feeling jealous and bitter.

I worked off my excess energy and frustration with exercise. At first I went to the gym, where I obsessively ran on the treadmill and lifted weights, but I'm not all that strong -- I'm on the slender side of average, so weightlifting seemed a bit of a waste of time.

Then I began to go to the pool.

The pool suited me much more than the gym did. The gym was sweaty, ultra-modern, with people doing synchronised exercising and instructors barking commands over loud techno.

The pool, especially in the evenings, was very different. It was old, and the tiled changing rooms had an antique, time-honoured quality that I liked.

Gradually, over a few weeks, my patterns of going to the pool changed. I started out going to the mixed sessions, but I found it too frustrating to be among all those wet girls in swimsuits, so I signed up for a late evening men's session.

When I got there, what I hadn't anticipated was that the fact that it was a men-only session meant that most of the men were swimming naked.

I was startled by this. They were mostly middle-aged and elderly men, often paunchy, balding, not exactly glamorous and buffed. The sight of all those naked men, with their sad bellies hanging over their genitals, was the opposite of arousing. But that suited me.

I didn't swim naked. It wasn't compulsory and anyway I was too inhibited about my own body. But what I found myself doing instead was spending as much time as possible naked in the changing room.

Although I didn't consider myself gay, and my few sexual experiences had all been with girls, I liked to imagine that I was open-minded, and if any of the men had suppressed homosexual urges and were checking me out, I liked the idea that they were eyeing my bottom. It was my most attractive feature, or so I'd always been told; it stuck out at the back and my buttocks were smooth, round and deep. I'd always been too inhibited to tell the girls I'd been to bed with -- all three of them! -- that I was secretly into ass play, so nothing had ever come of it. But in the changing rooms at the pool, I was a different character.

It was all based on fantasy. I had a routine. I went to the pool late in the evening, after dinner, and I changed into my swim trunks. Often, I'd be the only guy there who was wearing any sort of swimming costume at all.

I swam a few dozen lengths. Then, I got out and went to my locker and got my towel and took off my trunks and went for a shower.

I had a long and blissful shower, washing myself all over and not being shy about washing my ass and cock. My cock would quite often be semi-erect, just from my knowing that I was the youngest guy in the room. The other men could hardly fail to notice me, even if they were too inhibited to do anything about it. If anyone's gaze did intersect mine I'd smile at them, enjoying the hint that I was potentially available, even though I didn't consider myself to be anything of the kind. I just enjoyed the feeling of being naked among these complete strangers. I liked the idea that at least one of them might go home and jerk off to the memory of the young guy who showered naked at the pool and who always smiled as though he were enjoying the attention.

I lathered myself all over, much more than I had to, letting the suds flow over my naked body, and I'd shampoo my cropped head lavishly and close my eyes and let the shampoo froth flow over my face. Sometimes I'd make little noises of private pleasure as it did so. I slowly massaged my nude body, rubbing the soap into every nook and cranny, letting my fingers touch me everywhere, ensuring that every last part of me was clean, from my head and ears and nose and armpits and torso and arms down to my groin and ass crack and my taint. I gave those older men a proper eyeful. I would quietly enjoy my own body, exposing myself utterly to them, giving each one of them my tacit permission to go home to his wife and fantasise about what it would be like to take a young man like me to bed and do whatever he wanted to me.

It was all fantasy, of course. I was attracted to the fantasy of being available, but none of the men turned me on. What turned me on more than anything else was the idea of me being naked among them and the idea of being looked at with desire. If women weren't going to look at me with desire, then I figured men might as well.

Then, after I'd finished showering, I'd go back to my locker and carry out personal grooming, still naked, checking myself out in the mirror inside my locker door.

Eventually, after a good twenty minutes of being naked, I would reluctantly dress and go home. At home, I would sit up late and have a couple of drinks and eventually go to bed. I'd strip off to go to bed and masturbate naked, sometimes thinking about girls, sometimes -- rather furtively -- imagining men. Afterwards I'd lie there naked and go to sleep, hoping that I'd have an erotic dream.

I never dreamed of the effect my behaviour had on the other men.

I certainly never dreamed that it was something which would soon rebound on me.


It started one Friday night. I went a little later than usual, eight p.m. instead of seven-thirty, and once I was in the changing rooms I stripped off, as usual, and unhurriedly got into my swimming trunks.

I walked to the pool and found that, as usual, there were plenty of older men and a couple of guys closer to my age, and they were all doggedly swimming up and down, naked. The atmosphere wasn't exactly a cauldron of homoerotic tension, but I got in and swam my sixty lengths. I then swam another twenty and, deliciously tired, climbed out and went back into the changing rooms.

The only other man in there was a middle-aged man in his fifties, I guessed; balding, with a pronounced belly. He was showering naked. I walked to my locker and took off my trunks and put them inside, then I took my shampoo and soap and returned to the shower area.

I took a shower stall two spaces down from the guy. That alone was a bit provocative. The natural male thing to do would have been to take the one furthest away from him. But I didn't. I turned the water on and got under it, and sighed happily as I felt its lukewarm cascade over my body. The shower water at the pool was never hotter than lukewarm. I liked that. The colder the water, the more arousing it was, even if water that was actually cold was a turn-off.

I had been washing myself for some minutes when, to my surprise, the guy spoke.

"Why do you wear your swim trunks in the pool?"

I glanced at him, startled.

"Sorry?" I said.

"Why do you wear your swim trunks in the pool?" he said. His expression was neither friendly nor unfriendly.

"Oh," I said. "Um. Shy, I guess."

"You don't wear them in here," he said.

"No," I admitted.

"So there's no reason to wear them out there," he said. "That's the point of men's nights. No need to feel shy."

"Well," I said, feeling that he was getting at me slightly, "is that a rule?"

"No, it's not a rule," he said. "It's about the way people do things. If you wear them out there, it can make people feel self-conscious."

"Oh," I said. "Well, I don't want to make anyone feel awkward."

"Don't you?" he said, looking directly at me.

For the first time since I'd been going to the pool, I felt shy.

"No," I said.

"Maybe you don't make people feel awkward," he said, "but you certainly make them feel something."

He pointedly looked me up and down. I felt myself blushing, and was perplexed and nervous, the more so because I didn't find him attractive at all.

"I just like to feel free in here," I said.

"Well," he said, "I always like it when you show up."

"Thank you," I said, more confused and more nervous than ever. He was of my dad's generation, powerfully masculine and paunchy. He was washing himself with a tiny sliver of soap.

"What," he said, with an edge of lazy, sardonic amusement. "You seem a bit confused."

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to come down here and lead anyone on."

"Oh, come on now," he said, unsmiling. "I think you know you've been leading people on."

He stopped washing himself and turned to face me, his cock hanging down from under his belly.

"I really haven't been," I said, feeling genuinely scared, now.

"I think you have been, boy," he said. "You come in here, you parade around in your skin, you wear trunks to swim when nobody else does. We've all seen you taking your sweet time to wash yourself. Don't pretend you didn't know people were watching."

I was silent. I was blushing. It was true and he knew that I knew it. I avoided his gaze.

"I'm sorry if I've offended anyone," I mumbled eventually.

"You haven't offended anyone," he said reasonably. "Far from it. We like having you here."

"Who's 'we'?" I said. I was disturbed by the way he talked about them as if he spoke for all of them, whereas for all I knew he was a lone perv.

"All of us," he said, and as if on cue, another man entered the shower area. He was taller, grey-haired and well-built as if he'd played rugby in his youth but had gone to seed. I was glad of him entering the room because it meant that the fat man would stop talking to me.

My gladness lasted only a moment, for the grey-haired man, who was as naked as the rest of us, took his place under the shower, let himself get wet for a moment, then turned to the bald man and said "Having the talk, are you?"

"I am," said the bald man.

"Good, good," said the grey-haired man, and he turned to me.

I stared at them both, with horror.

"What's your name, son?" he said.

"Ali," I replied instinctively, and then cursed myself silently for telling the truth.

"Ali," he said, "do you see what we're talking about?"

"What are you talking about?" I said. I noticed that I was instinctively holding my arms to my chest, which hardly protected myself, but my naked, wet body seemed so vulnerable in this tiled, echoing room.

"You've come in here," he said, "and you've been oh so provocative. And you know you have been. You're a good-looking boy. And it hasn't escaped our notice that if you had anywhere else to be, you'd be there instead. So it's time to put your money where your mouth is."

"Y-you mean . . ." I looked from one to the other, horrified at what I thought they were saying.

"We do mean that," said the grey-haired man. He was immensely confident and assured, clearly someone of power, someone used to being obeyed.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, staring at him, hypnotised.

"Don't pretend you don't know," he said, walking towards me, smiling. Another man entered the room, saw what was going on, and sauntered over unhurriedly, clearly part of their group. I backed away from the grey-haired man but I soon came up against the tiled wall, far from the exit.

"You can't mean . . ." I stammered.

"Yes, Ali," said the grey-haired man. "There's two ways we can do this. Either you can put up a struggle, in which case I can assure you it's gonna be very uncomfortable for you, or else you can give us what we want. If it's the latter, if you're a good boy about it, who knows? You might even enjoy it."

"But," I gasped, "y-you . . . you want to . . ."

"Yes, Ali," he said patiently. "We're going to rape you. Assuming of course that you don't give us your consent. If you do give us your consent, we're just going to fuck you."

"I . . . no," I gasped, shaking my head, terrified. "I can't say yes to that. I'm not gay. Please."

"Who said anything about being gay?" he said. "I'm a happily married man. I have a wife and two beautiful daughters. They're old enough for you to date them. If you're nice enough to me, I might even let you."

"You're going to rape me?" I whimpered.

"It does look like it, doesn't it," he said.

I covered my groin and ass with my hands and cowered in the corner, looking around desperately, wanting to weep, terrified, but my heart was pounding.

"I told you," he said in a kindly tone. "If you resist it's going to be an awful lot harder for you."

"Just like that?" I moaned. "You're just going to . . ."

"Oh well, of course we're going to use lube," he said. "We're not savages. Here."

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the wall. I stumbled after him, unable to conceal my nudity.

"Ah, the poor wee lamb," he laughed. "Look at him. Not so brazen now, are you?"

"What are you going to do to me?" I asked, staring at him, staring at the other two, wide-eyed, dry-mouthed. I was on the verge of tears.

"Well," he said, "perhaps normally, we might have thought about just getting you to suck us off, or give us a handjob. But I'm afraid, Ali, with that tight round arse of yours, what can I say?"

The other two chuckled.

"You're the Kim Kardashian of this changing room, no doubt about it," he said. "That sexy arse is crying out for someone to fuck it."

"Oh god," I whimpered, cringing from him, trying to shield my slender naked body. I felt ashamed, not just of what they wanted to do to me but how much I'd behaved as though I wanted it. But now the prospect of having that done to me was staring me in the face, and I was terrified and wanted to run and wanted to scream for mercy and . . .

"So that's what I'm going to do," he said, looking down at me seriously, not without a kind of friendliness.

"I've never done that," I said. "Please. Please don't. Don't do that."

"Oh no," he said. "It's too late for that now. Barry, if you could oblige me."

The third man who entered walked over. He had something in his hand and as he got closer I recognised it as a tub of Vaseline.

"Normally," said the grey-haired man, "we'd use KY, but in a wet environment like this, it'll just wash off and you wouldn't thank us for not greasing you up. So it'll have to be Vaseline."

"Please," I gasped.

He turned me to face the wall. He lifted my wrists so that I was leaning against it, my palms against the wall, my arse stuck out behind me. I felt supremely vulnerable, a naked young man in a changing room late at night with three older, bigger, naked men, all of whom were proposing to rape me, and I was too scared to fight or defend myself.

"Relax," said the grey-haired man, as he positioned himself behind me. "Look at you. You're gorgeous. You're here. You're available. You want to get laid. Fine, so we're not three young girls. But you're going to get fucked tonight, Ali, so I advise you to relax and let it happen."

I felt his fingers smearing the thick, greasy Vaseline between my naked bum cheeks and I gasped and trembled.

"Please," I moaned, my voice cracking as I looked at them over my shoulder. "Please don't do this."

"I don't see you running off," he said calmly.

Oh, God. Why did I not run? Why did I stand there, and let them do that to me, and not even fight back? There were more of them, but why did I not lift so much as a finger to defend myself?

I felt his finger rooting around, feeling for my anus. Oh god, to my shame, the pressure of someone being so unfamiliarly intimate with me was making my cock stiffen. I shut my eyes and moaned again, in horror and self-disgust.

"Looks like he's enjoying it," said the bald man.

"Good," said the grey-haired man. His finger found my anus and he pressed at it a couple of times, and I shuddered and whimpered at how passively I accepted it, how little I even pretended to defend myself.

"There you are," he said. "There's your boy-cunt. That's where I'm going to go in, Ali. Loosen up there for me, there's a good lad."

"Uuuunnnhhhh!" I whimpered as I felt his finger slide inside my anus. I reflexively pushed my hips backwards, impaling myself on his finger. He stroked my arse and patted it.

"Good boy," he muttered. "That's it."

"Please," I begged. "Please don't."

"Please don't what?" he said.

"Please don't do it."

"Please don't do what?" he snapped, and slapped my bare buttock sharply. I yelped.

"Please don't fuck me there," I gasped.

"Please don't fuck you where?" he said, sadistically, and I understood what he wanted me to say.

"I know what you want to do," I whimpered as I felt his finger loosening the tight ring of my asshole.

"What do I want to do?" he said thickly. I kept my eyes shut, knowing I was standing there naked and passive while he loosened me up, and knowing that the other two men were still watching us.

"Oh god," I moaned. "You want to . . . you want to sodomise me."

"Yes," he said. "And I'm going to."

I couldn't help it any longer and my eyes brimmed over.

"Please," I sobbed, "please don't. Please don't bugger me."

"Too late, boy," he growled, and he pulled his finger out of me and I felt him grasp me round the hips and I moaned loudly as he directed his stiff, long cock between my buttocks and it pressed at my anus. I opened my mouth wide as I felt him part me, and then as the head of his cock split me and slid into my anus, I squealed: "OoooaaAAAUUUHHHHH!"

Then he was in me, and I was lost.

I stood there, my eyes tight shut, moaning as I felt him piercing my ass with his cock as I stood naked in the changing room of the pool, with two strangers watching him rape me. I had done nothing, absolutely nothing to stop it from happening, except beg him not to do it. And now he was in me, and I had lost my anal virginity to an older man whose name I didn't even know, and he was vigorously pumping his cock into my naked 20-year-old arse. And the pressure of his cock up my arse was filling my groin and lower body with a hot thrill, something so dirty and forbidden that I was bitterly ashamed to admit it.

"Ohhh, god . . ." I moaned.

"Take me," he muttered. "Take me, you fucking bitch. Take me."

"Yes," I heard myself gasp, and I was so horrified at my own reaction that I immediately whimpered "Oh nooo . . ."

I knew that they were watching me, watching my slender body shaking as he fucked me, my taut round buttocks quivering as he pumped into me, knowing how humiliated and violated I was feeling. Enjoying how humiliated and violated I was feeling. He reached around me and grabbed my prick and I stiffened in his hand, and he laughed quietly at my shame and arousal.

Because it was the most sexually intimate I had been with anyone. I had slept with girls, but the rather rushed and often drunken couplings I'd had were nothing compared to standing in a shower room, stone cold sober, and letting an older man fuck me up my arse, while his friends stood by and waited their turn. Him fucking me was far more visceral and powerful and troubling than fumbling my way to an orgasm with a girl. Even though I would have preferred to be in bed with a girl, fucking her up her arse.

In the meantime, there was nothing I could to do save my dignity, or hide my arousal. I stood there and whimpered as he buggered me, keeping my eyes shut, and when he began to show signs of being about to come I obligingly stuck out my ass and milked his cock.

He came in me, gasping, and I made a low moan of abject submission, and as he pulled out of me I opened my eyes.

The room was full of men. I immediately whimpered, "Oh, god, nooo . . ." and shuddered, knowing that they'd most probably all witnessed what he had just done to me.

The bald, fat man walked up to me. I looked at him, and some demon of defiance possessed me.

"What are you gonna do to me?" I said breathlessly. "You gonna fuck me as well?"

Without a word he grabbed me and pressed me against the cold, tiled wet wall, and he pushed his cock between my buttocks.

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