In the dimly lit gym, Phoenix's presence commanded attention. His sculpted frame glistened with beads of sweat as he engaged in an intricate ballet of strength and precision. With each rep, his muscles rippled, straining against the resistance of the iron dumbbells.
There was a fluidity to his movements that spoke of an intimate familiarity with his own body. The clang of weights melded with the steady rhythm of his breathing, an unspoken dialogue between man and iron. It was as if the weights themselves yielded willingly to his touch, surrendering their resistance to his willpower.Yet, a distant ...[Read more]
Yet, a distant sound reached Phoenix underneath the clang of metal. Someone was singing, and based on the way the echo hung in the air, he could tell it came from the backrooms, where the showers were. He wiped some sweat away before it could reach his eyes; now was as good a time for a break as any.
He followed the song until he found its source. There, naked, his body slick with water, was Sleepy Reed, singing Mario's "Let Me Love You" as he lathered his lithe, tall frame with soap. When he turned to see Phoenix, a smile lit up his face. It was a spontaneous grin spurned by a mix of emotions—a bit of embarrassment at being caught singing in the shower, and an awful lot of excitement at seeing Phoenix's muscled, warrior-like body joining him under the shower head.
With a set of pipes like that, surely this boy must know how to use his lips, Phoenix thought. Sleepy Reed has no problem proving that true; he got down on his knees and brings his tongue, then his lips, to Phoenix's cock. The tip of it darted around the edge of the head, teasing it wet, before swallowing it down to the hilt.
Well, if Sleepy Reed gets to have fun while he eats, then Phoenix will, too. The blonde-loc top spun his soprano bottom around and pushed him against the shower wall. He grabbed Sleepy Reed's hips and pressed his face between the cheeks, tonguing and sucking on Sleepy Reed's hole. Phoenix had never been one to wait for anything, and with the way this rim job made Sleepy Reed's gasps hit new, beautiful notes of pleasure, he wasn't going to start now.
Like a siren, Sleepy Reed's song had lured Phoenix to the showers. But the way his voice sounded now, in the throes of ecstasy, it drove Phoenix mad with lust. He took his cock and slid it into Sleepy Reed's ass, and each thrust pushed a note from Sleepy Reed. The singer's voice echoed in the showers like an orchestra, each note of pleasure in time with a thrust. Every slap of skin-on-skin contact was percussion. The whole room was filled with the music of their sex.
So driven by how tight Sleepy Reed was, and so inspired by the sounds he made when fucked, Phoenix took his new lover out of the showers and into the locker room. He laud Reed on his back on one of the benches, spreading his legs and ass cheeks wide. Every thrust of his hips in their twisting, twining positions would prod against Reed's prostate, sending shivers down his tall, lithe lover's spine. Eventually, the two, singer and weightlifter, shoot their loads—Phoenix's gushing out of Reed, and Reed's spraying across his belly—and realized in the stupor of their afterglow the same thing:
We gotta go back to the showers.
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