After Close With the Ballpark Foreman

The gym on Walnut had gone quiet after nine. I cut the front lights and left the weight room burning, racks throwing hard shadows across the black rubber. I was wiping a bench when Marcus Hale shouldered back through the door. Thirty-six, foreman on the ballpark build, a wall of chest and thick arms in a gray shirt gone salt-white at the collar. He turned the deadbolt himself. The click sat low in my gut. I was twenty-nine, leaner than him, the kind of muscle you earn spotting other men. For three weeks I had pretended not to stare.

- You still here, Eli?
- Somebody has to close.
- Then close it. I didn't walk back for another set.
- What did you walk back for?
- You. I've been staring at your mouth since the first time you put your hands on my lats. Tell me no and I leave.
- I'm not telling you no.
- Say it plain.
- I want you. Here. Tonight.

He crossed the rubber in three strides. Up close he was heat and cheap soap and the iron smell of a man who had lived under a bar. His palm found the back of my neck, callused from rebar, and he kissed me like he had been biting the want in half for weeks. I opened for him. His tongue was blunt and sure. I got both hands under his shirt and shoved it up, palms skating the hard ridges of his stomach, the dense dark fur that narrowed and vanished under his waistband. He stripped the shirt and threw it at the rack. His chest was heavy, pecs round and flushed, nipples dark and tight. I put my mouth on one and sucked until his breath broke and his fist closed in my hair.

He turned me into the power rack, chest to the cold upright, steel biting my sternum through the thin tank. He yanked the tank over my head and dropped it. Those rough hands mapped me, shoulders, the long groove of my spine, the small of my back, then shoved my shorts and jock down in one drag. Cool air hit my ass. His cock pressed the cleft, thick, hot, already slick at the tip. I heard a packet tear from his bag, then the wet sound of lube in his fist. Two fingers pushed into me, slow, then deeper, scissoring, working the tight ring until the burn went sweet and I was rocking back onto his knuckles. His other hand stroked my cock loose and filthy, thumb dragging through the precome at the slit.

He replaced his fingers with the head of his cock and sank in. The stretch stole the air out of me. He was big, a heavy upward curve that filled me inch by inch until his hips met my ass and his balls rested warm against me. He held there, one forearm locked across my chest, mouth open on my neck, breath harsh. Then he fucked me. Long strokes first, the rack creaking, his cock dragging over the spot that made my knees go loose, then harder, the slap of his hips loud in the empty room. Every thrust knocked a raw sound out of my throat. His hand found my cock again and pumped it in time, grip tight, slick with spit and my own leak. I came first, sudden and blinding, striping the upright and my stomach, clenching around him so hard his rhythm broke and he drove in to the root.

He pulled out before he finished, turned me, and lifted me onto the flat bench like I weighed nothing. I hooked my heels behind his thick thighs and watched his stomach flex as he pushed back in, face to face, eyes blown dark, the cheap chain at his throat ticking my collarbone with every stroke. The angle was deeper. I could see where he disappeared into me, the wet shine of lube on his shaft, the way my body took him. He kissed me messy, teeth and breath and a groan he couldn't keep, and came buried deep, pulsing, hips jerking, heat flooding me in thick spurts while his arms shook and his forehead dropped to mine.

He didn't let me clean up in the weight room. He hauled me down the back hall to the showers, still hard enough to leave a wet streak on my thigh, and shoved us under the spray that the last class had left running hot. Water beat his broad back and ran through the hair on his chest. He dropped to his knees on the tile, took my softened cock into his mouth, and worked it back to aching with his tongue, slow and thorough, one big hand spreading me so two fingers could slide into the mess he had left. I held his skull and fucked his throat until my thighs shook and spit ran down his chin into the drain.

He pulled off, stood, and turned me to the tile. I reached back, wrapped a hand around him, and guided him in. He slid home easier, hot water and his own come making it filthy and smooth, and he fucked me standing, one arm banded under my chest, the other working my cock in a tight fist. The slap of wet skin echoed off the stalls. I came a second time against the wall, weaker and longer, spilling over his knuckles, and he followed with a broken noise into my shoulder, grinding deep, flooding me again until it ran down the inside of my thigh and mixed with the spray.

He soaped my back after, careful with those rough hands, and we dressed in the locker bay without looking away. His truck ticked in the alley heat.
- Same time tomorrow.
- Lock the door when I walk in. His taillights hit Walnut and vanished. I could feel him with every step back to the bolt.