Biggest Dick In My Dorm 02: Gym Showers (Patreon)

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Chapter 2: Gym Showers

I couldn't stop thinking about the cup. Taylor's throat moving while he looked at me over the rim, and the sleeve wipe, and how he set the cup back down on the counter afterward, smirking at me.

The next day, I stood in the hallway outside his room with my gym bag already on my shoulder, pretending to look at my phone, until his door opened.

"Gym," I said.

"Library."

"Gym."

"I have reading."

"C'mon."

He stood in the doorway with his hood already up and his laptop bag across his chest, and he looked at me for a second.

"I don't work out," he said.

"That's the point. You gotta start."

"I'll sit in the library and you can text me when you're done, same as always."

"Bro, you weigh like nine pounds. Come do one exercise. One. Then go read your book about whatever."

"It's a play."

I stared at him. He exhaled through his nose and pulled the bag strap up, and then he came, hood still up, laptop and all, down the stairs and out across the quad.

The corner of the weight floor by the mirrors was empty, which was the only reason I got him onto a bench at all. He shoved the laptop bag underneath it and lay flat on his back in the hoodie and his jeans, sneakers planted on the rubber floor on either side, and I loaded the bar with the smallest plates in the rack and then took one of them off again.

"That's insulting," he said.

"Push it."

I stood at his head with my hands under the bar, palms up, hovering. He unracked it and it wobbled immediately, drifting toward his left shoulder, and his elbows shook on the way down. A middle schooler could have handled that bar. It came down to his chest and stopped there and he made a sound.

"Push."

He pushed. My fingers brushed the underside of his forearm on the second rep, guiding it back level. On the third one his arms quit halfway up and I got both hands in fast, one on the bar and one flat against his ribcage through the hoodie, and his whole side expanded under my palm while he breathed. I felt his thin ribs, and the warmth through the fabric, his chest lifting into my hand as I pressed him up.

"Got you," I said.

I racked it for him. My hand stayed on his ribs for a second after the bar was in the hooks, and then I took it back.

He sat up and I sat down next to him on the bench, shoulder against shoulder, both of us facing the mirror. I held out my water bottle and he took it and drank about a thimble's worth of it and handed it back.

"I'm going to die," he said.

"You did four reps of an empty bar with training wheels."

"Still."

In the mirror we looked ridiculous next to each other, me in a cutoff with my arms already pumped from the warmup, him swimming inside a hoodie, with the drawstrings uneven.

I thought about how pretty much every guy on my floor had asked about my cock. But Taylor  hadn't, although he drank a cup of my cum in front of everyone. 

Taylor watched me get through maybe two more sets, missing the rack twice when putting the bar back, not even trying anymore.

"I'm done," I said.

"Cool. I'll head out."

"We can shower here," I said. 

"I'm not even..."

"You gotta shower with me."

He paused. "Okay."

····[]····

The gym showers were different from the ones at our dorm. Two rows facing each other down a long tiled room, no stalls, no curtains, just showerheads on both walls and a drain running around the perimeter of the floor. There was one guy at the far end when we came in, some big grad student type who rinsed his shoulders for a bit and shut his water off and walked out past us with his towel in his fist.

Then it was the two of us, and we turned on the water.

Taylor hung his towel on a hook and took a showerhead on the far row and turned it on and stood under it with his back mostly to me, and I hung mine on the hook directly across from his and took the head opposite him instead of the four other empty ones on my side. Six feet of wet tile between us. I turned to face him straight on.

Besides a glance or two in the dorm showers, I had never actually looked at him without that hoodie. He was skinnier than I figured, but not in a sick way, more like a swimmer, with a flat stomach, a faint line down the middle of it where the two sides met. He was symmetrical. His shoulder blades stuck out under the water and slid when he lifted his arms to push his hair back, and the freckles I had only ever seen on his neck kept going, across the tops of his shoulders and thinning out down his back, darker where the water hit them. His ass was small and round and sat up high on him, two tight pale cheeks with a tan line faded to almost nothing, and his legs under it were long and thin, with actual calf muscles.

"Are you a runner?" I asked. 

"Biking," he said without looking at me. 

"Ah."

He turned halfway to grab the soap off the ledge and I looked at the front of him. Narrow chest, pink nipples, a stomach that curved in instead of out, a thin trail of hair starting below his navel and nothing above it. His dick hung soft and neat between his thighs, average, pale like the rest of him, his balls pulled up tight from the cold. He had his eyes closed under the spray and his mouth open a little, and his lips were the biggest part of his face, full and pink and wet, the bottom one hanging heavier than the top. Water ran off the tip of his nose and over them. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and the freckles on his cheeks showed darker with his hair flattened back off his forehead.

In my head I thought, he's kind of pretty, which was not a word I had ever used about a guy.

I reached down and resettled my junk, like any guy does when he gets into the water, except slowly, taking hold and lifting and letting it drop, and then a shift of my hips so it swung across my thigh and back, dense, soft, impossible to miss at that distance. I did it again until my heavy dick was smacking firmly against my thighs, loud.

He looked.

He didn't do a fast glance-and-away. He turned under his own water and looked down at it and kept looking, freckles running down his neck, the water sheeting off them down his collarbone.

And then I watched him get hard. It came up in front of him while the water ran over it, and he put his hands at his sides and left them there. He didn't turn toward the wall. He didn't cup his junk out of modesty. He stood in the open with a hard dick pointing at me across a public shower room and kept his eyes where they already were.

"Are you gay?" I said.

"Yup."

The water kept running on both of us.

"You never said anything."

"Yeah."

That was the whole conversation, and my cock started to fill up standing there, just from being looked at, by him specifically, my dick thickening and lifting off my thigh in the open air while he watched it happen.

"So do you like it," I said. "You're the only one on that floor who doesn't ask about it."

"That's a straight guy thing," he said, his eyes locked onto my rod. "But I drank a cup of your boy juice in front of the whole hall."

Water ran between us for a second.

"So, yeah, I do," he said.

I was all the way hard by then, sticking out across the aisle at him with the spray splitting off the top of it and running down both sides.

"So why don't you do something about it?" I said.

He reached back without looking and shut his own water off. The room got quieter by half. He crossed the tile barefoot, five steps, and lowered himself onto his knees in front of me on the wet floor, and my water came down on my chest and shoulders and started hitting the top of his head, plastering his hair flat.

He lifted my meat with both hands from underneath, one under the shaft and one cradling my balls, hefting the whole thing like he was checking the weight of it.

"This is the biggest one on campus I bet," he said. "Probably in the whole city."

He kissed my balls first, on the underside, mouth open a little, and then moved up and kissed the base where it came out of me, and the water ran down my stomach onto his face while he did it.

"Everybody wants to hold it," he said against me. "Guys talk about it like a trophy. It's magnetic."

He turned his head and dragged his lips along the underside toward the middle.

"I want to serve it. It's the most perfect cock in the world. It deserves to be worshiped. You're a king."

My ego filled as much as my cock. He leaned forward and I stepped back. My ass touched the tile behind me, cold on the meat of my cheeks, and I stayed there.

He opened his mouth and squeezed the head into his mouth properly, both hands still under the shaft holding it up for himself, and the heat of it in the water shot straight up through my stomach. He sank down as far as he could, and from where I stood I was looking at the top of his wet head, his back curving, and the two small round cheeks of his ass sitting up off his heels, perky, bouncing a little every time he pushed forward.

My hands went down into his hair, my fingers pushing through it as the wet strands slid between them, and I held on. His hands came off the shaft then and gripped my thighs instead, thumbs digging into the muscle, and he pulled himself onto it further.

He gagged. His whole back tensed and I felt his throat get tighter, and his shoulders bunched up and he pulled off, coughing water and spit down onto the tile between my feet, one hand still clamped on my thigh.

Then he went right back down.

I knew in that moment that I was harder and hornier for this one skinny freckled guy on his knees than I ever got for any girl I took into a back bedroom after a party. It wasn't even close. Girls lay there, said it was big, and often just took the tip and nothing else. He was working, gagging on it, hair flattened, coming back for more of it every time while his eyes got redder and redder, and I stood against the tile with my toes curled. The dude was worshiping me how I liked, and his physical capabilities were beyond what any girl had managed. 

A locker slammed out in the changing room, metal, loud, and the sound came right down the tile hallway into us.

But Taylor didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. His head kept moving and his hands stayed on my thighs and he took another inch on the next push.

I reached up with my right hand and grabbed the exposed pipe running above the showerhead, cold and slick under my fingers, and leaned the rest of my back against the wall, and stayed there while he worked.

Footsteps out there, a bag zipper, a door. Nobody came in. He kept going the entire time and I held that pipe and looked down at him.

He was clearly a pro at this, a real gay guy, and my orgasm built up fast. My left hand came off his hair and settled on the back of his neck, feeling the tendons move, and I got my hips forward off the tile.

"I'm gonna cum for you," I said.

He hummed around it and I could feel his hands tighten on my thighs, and he stayed exactly where he was.

He reached a hand up under my balls to feel my taint pulsing, and I squirted right into his mouth with my whole hand clamped on the pipe above me, my arm locked, the water still coming down over both of us, and my knees stiffened and my stomach clenched hard enough that I made an involuntary noise, boyish and embarrassing, loud in the tiled room. He stayed down on me through every pulse, his throat working around it, swallowing while I was still going, one hand flattened on my thigh to hold me where he wanted me.

When I stopped throbbing, he eased off it and sat back on his heels on the wet floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

I let go of the pipe. My fingers had gone numb around it.

He stood up and stepped back under his own showerhead and turned it on, and he was still hard, and nobody had touched him this entire time. I came off the wall and reached across for him.

He stepped back out of range with his hands up.

"Nope."

"Bro."

"I'm good," he said, and he put his face in the water and rubbed it with both hands.

"You're like, extremely hard."

"That's my business," he said. "Wash your ass and let's go."

····[]····

We walked back with our hair still wet, our bags on our shoulders and talked about a professor of his whom he suspected of being a secret agent for the NSA. I was barely able to focus on his words. At the crosswalk by the science building Taylor stopped and hitched his laptop strap higher.

"I've got a thing," he said.

"What thing?"

"A thing." He put his hood up over his wet head and crossed against the light, and he was gone.

Mike was standing outside my door when I got back to the hall, phone in his hand, thumbing at it.

"What's up," I said.

"Hey."

I unlocked my door and he came in behind me without being invited. I dropped my gym bag by the desk and stood there in my shorts and t-shirt while he parked himself in the middle of my floor next to my roommate's stripped mattress.

"So," he said. "This is gonna sound insane."

"Okay."

"I want you to fuck my girlfriend."

I narrowed my eyes at him almost all the way shut.

"No."

"She's serious about it. She wants to try the monster. Her words, that's what she calls it, the monster. I'd be right there, it's not weird."

"Too bad."

He didn't leave. He stood by the bare mattress with his phone still in his hand, turning it over, and the quiet stretched out long enough that I sat down on the edge of my bed.

"Can I just see it again anyway," he said.

I put my hands behind me on the mattress and leaned back on them.

"You can blow me."

His head came up. "What?"

"Blow me. We'll send a pic to your girlfriend."

His jaw actually dropped, and his phone stayed in his hand, and I sat there and waited.