It was a boring Saturday morning. After bouncing out of bed for a quick breakfast, I went back and smeared lube on my limp cock. I pumped, but only got to half steam. I stopped, went to the bathroom and washed my hands. "Fuck it," I said.
So I went to the gym to play squash.
Afterwards, in the locker room, I stripped and walked to the sauna. As I passed through the room with sinks, there was a beautiful man shaving. Entirely naked, he was tall and lean. His butt was round and firm, his back broad and shoulders defined. In the mirror, he had a beautiful chest hairless like a Calvin Klein model, captivating lips and eyes and a strong chin under the shaving cream. I glimpsed down in the mirror, a reflex?, to check out his penis. Pure limpness, it was large and thick, though "fat" seems the better adjective. It hung a long way down his thigh and the tip rested on the Formica. It swung with his shaving motion. His eyes flashed and caught me looking. I kept walking, embarrassed and a little jealous at his good looks, and turned into sauna, pushing up the temp as I went.
With my eyes closed, I heard the door open a minute later. I listened to the boards creek as a man--I feared it was him--sat down across from me. There were no other sounds but our breathing; no showers ran, the place being pretty quiet two days after Thanksgiving.
I opened my eyes. His eyes stared into my crotch. I had my penis well hidden, squeezed between my legs. He sat with knees far a part. He lifted his eyes to mine.
"When I grow up, I want to be able to put aftershave lotion on my face and not have it burn," he said slowly.
"Yeah," I replied, realizing he was trying to break ice, "it's that thin stuff, you know cheap stuff." God, I thought, what a slip, I hope he didn't catch it.
I walked out and got in a shower, pulling the curtain carefully across the front, though it didn't quite cover all the way. A minute later, I heard the shower across and over from me begin. As I rinsed the soap from my hair, and opened my eyes. I could see him clearly in his shower through the opening in my curtain. He hadn't pulled his shut. He was doing what large-dicked men often do; he was showing off. I was his only audience. He soaped his pecs, his round brown nipples between his fingers. He soaped his stomach. He soaped his pubic hair. He soaped his penis. Then he put two huge balls in his hands and soaped them.
I turned off my water and quickly wrapped my towel around my waist. I stopped in the sink room to comb my hair, and as I turned to my locker I saw him, in the mirror, step out of the shower. I did not peek.
Fate had his locker near mine, and as I sat on a stool in my boxer shorts, buttoning my shirt, he walked toward me, naked and swinging, beautiful and godlike, even in the corner of my eye.
"So, did you have a good Thanksgiving?" he asked. I turned my head to answer. He was standing. My eyes went for his eyes, but his cock, about two feet away, was right at eye level. He planned it, I know, and it worked. Even though I eventually found his eyes, I had another good look. Was this an Abercrombie model? This man was bigger soft than I am hard. And he looked, in his penis, so heavy, but he was so lean.
I wanted to reach out and touch him there. I wanted to cradle him and feel him grow in my hand. Better, I wanted to put him soft in my mouth and see if I could still breath when he was hard.
He knew my thoughts, even as I muttered, "Thanksgiving was great, but cold. We had a picnic."
"We?" he asked.
"My ex and I," I said.
"Yeah, it was cold."
We didn't speak again. I could breath, but at times I couldn't keep my teeth out of his cock. My jaw ached. With the huge cockhead in my mouth, I gripped him like a baseball bat with two hands and pumped with a vengeance. His cum welled up. He shot and shot, and I swallowed and swallowed. His cum was salty and tasted like heaven.