Thick Heat After the Gym Closed

The Foundry on Rainey Street had gone quiet by eleven. Austin heat still pressed the roof, and the only light left in the locker room was the strip over the wooden benches. I was on my knees by the electrical panel, torque screwdriver tight in my fist, sweat tracking down my spine under a damp gray tee. Thirty-two years old, still taking night calls because the overtime kept the truck on the road. My shoulders burned. Drywall dust streaked my jeans. Past the showers a pipe knocked once and went still.

Andre Holt came out of the office in black board shorts and nothing else. I had watched him correct deadlifts all week, bark cues, slap a palm against a client's back, but not like this. Thirty-five, old tight-end size, chest thick enough to throw a shadow, stomach cut into hard ridges, a dark line of hair running from his navel into the waistband. His skin shone. He smelled like cedar soap and the warm iron of a long session. The shorts sat low. I looked, and I didn't hide it.

He set a hand on the locker bank and let his eyes travel.
- Thought everybody cleared out.
- Almost. Last breaker was sticking. You can lock up after me.
- You've been staring at my back since Tuesday.
- You don't make it hard to stare.
- Steam room's still running. Nobody here but us. You coming, or you gonna keep kneeling by that panel?

I stood. We matched for height, and the air between us went tight. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then to the front of my jeans, and the corner of his mouth moved like he already had the answer. He tipped his head toward the glass door at the end of the tile.
- Front's locked.
- Then quit talking and show me.

He shoved the steam-room door with his shoulder. Heat rolled over us, white and thick, eucalyptus sharp in the back of my throat. Tile stung my bare feet after I kicked off the boots and peeled the tee. He watched me shove the jeans down. I was already hard, cock heavy against my thigh, and he didn't look away. His shorts hit the bench outside. Naked, he was bigger than the clothes had promised, thick through the chest and ass, cock heavy and flushed, curving up against a trail of dark hair. The door sealed. The room hissed. Water beaded on his collarbones and ran into the groove of his stomach.

He caught my jaw and kissed me hard, mouth hot, tongue pushing in, stubble scraping my lip. I grabbed his waist and felt the muscle jump under wet skin. He walked me back until my shoulders hit the warm tile. His cock dragged against mine, slick already from the steam, and the shock of it went straight up my spine. I wrapped a hand around both of us and stroked, slow, feeling the ridge of his head bump my own, the weight of him filling my palm. He groaned into my mouth and bit my lower lip, not enough to break skin, enough to make my knees loosen. His hands went to my ass, big and rough from the bars, spreading me, thumbs pressing into the muscle. I rocked into his grip and felt his cock jump against mine.

He turned me and put my hands on the upper bench. Steam blurred the glass. I heard the pump click, then the wet sound of his mouth as he dropped behind me and spread me open. His tongue was hot and blunt, licking a slow stripe, then circling, then pushing in. My forehead hit my forearm. I pushed back without meaning to, and he held my hips and worked me open with his mouth until my thighs shook and my cock dripped onto the tile. One thick finger followed, then two, slick with something he'd grabbed off the shelf by the door, cool for a second, then nothing but heat and the stretch. He crooked them and found the spot that made my stomach drop. I pressed my mouth to my arm and bore down on his hand.

He stood. I felt the head of his cock press against me, broad and hot, and he waited one breath until I pushed back. Then he sank in, slow, thick, filling me until his hips met my ass and the air left my chest. The stretch burned sweet and deep. He stayed there, one hand spread over my lower back, the other wrapped around my cock, stroking in time with the first short thrusts. Steam ran down my ribs. Each stroke dragged over that spot and lit me up. I braced harder on the bench and met him, ass slapping wet against his stomach, the sound loud in the small room. He fucked me steady, then harder, the bench creaking, his breath rough at my ear, chest plastered to my back, all that muscle working. I reached back and gripped his thigh and felt it flex every time he drove in.

He pulled out, turned me, and lifted one of my legs onto the bench so he could watch my face. He pushed back in to the hilt and stroked my cock with a slick fist, thumb rubbing the head on every upstroke. I held his shoulders and felt the power in them, the shake starting in his arms. His eyes stayed on mine. The heat, the stretch, the rough drag of his hand stacked until I couldn't hold it. I came hard over his fingers and my own stomach, pulse after pulse, clenching around him so tight a rough sound broke out of him and he lost the rhythm. He drove in deep and stayed, cock throbbing, spilling inside me in hot rushes I felt one after another. His forehead dropped to my shoulder. We shook together while the steam kept pouring and the city hummed somewhere past the glass.