Chapter 4: Chapter 4
The car’s interior was a capsule of quiet, the purr of the engine the only sound for a few blocks. Rob felt loose, his muscles like warm putty, his mind adrift in a pleasant, post-massage haze. The world outside the window seemed softer, less sharp at the edges.
“So,” Martin said, his eyes on the road. “Enjoy it?”
Rob didn’t have to feign the sigh that escaped him. “It was amazing. Thank you, again. Seriously.”
“Bashir’s wonderful,” Martin said, nodding. “Really knows his anatomy. But me, I prefer Trevor. Something about his… skills suit me better.” He paused, a faint smile playing on his lips. “And sometimes it’s just nice to get a proper, professional release. A break from all the gooning and bating, you know?”
Rob’s head swivelled so fast his neck gave a soft pop. The words, so casual, so crude, hung in the air between them. They didn’t match Martin’s neat beard, his sensible car, his accountant’s face. “You…” Rob’s voice was a squeak. He cleared his throat. “You goon? And bate?”
Martin gave him a sidelong glance, the smile turning into a full, knowing grin. “Feels like it’s all I can do sometimes. My libido is through the roof. The wife has no interest. I can’t be bothered with affairs or hookups because people are just the worst. The drama, the expectations…” He shook his head. “So. You’re a goonbro too?” He laughed, a sound of genuine surprise.
Rob nodded, his face hot. The confession tumbled out. “I just… I always assumed I did it because… because no one would ever want me. And because I’m a bit of a pervert.”
“Nonsense,” Martin said, his tone firm but kind. “That’s all in your head, bro.”
The word ‘bro’, so silly and intimate, broke the tension. A real smile touched Rob’s lips for the first time since getting in the car. “Which head, bro?”
Martin burst out laughing, a rich, unexpected sound that filled the car. Rob joined him, the laughter shaking the last of the nervous stiffness from his shoulders. His mind, however, was spinning. Martin. Bland, easy-going, disciplined Martin. A gooning weirdo. Just like him. The information was too vast, too contradictory to process. His head was both too full of it and too blissfully empty from Bashir’s ministrations to do anything but let the revelation orbit lazily in the background.
“But you enjoyed Bashir?” Martin asked as he turned into the near-deserted gym car park. The last of the evening’s dedicated crowd were pulling out in their hatchbacks, leaving the building dark except for the security lights.
“Very much,” Rob said, the blush returning.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. Guys need this sort of thing. It’s healthy. Bottling it up never did anyone any good.”
They parked by the familiar side door. Martin punched the code with practised ease, the lock buzzing open to reveal the cavernous, quiet interior of Ironclad. The usual thumping music was a distant, low throb, more a vibration in the floor than a sound. The air was still thick with the day’s accumulated sweat and effort, but the space felt different at night—private, almost sacred.
“Hey Ed,” Martin called to the owner, clicking through spreadsheets at the front desk.
“Martin. Rob,” Ed nodded, barely looking up.
The locker room was empty, their footsteps echoing on the tiles. Rob went to his locker, intending to leave his bag there and head out in his preferred uniform: the heavy, grey sweatshirt and baggy joggers.
Before he could, a soft bundle of fabric hit him in the chest. He caught it on reflex.
“Found these buried in the back of my closet,” Martin said, unzipping his own bag. “From my… huskier era. Thought you might get some use out of them. There’s more where that came from.”
Rob unfolded the garments. A vest and shorts, both in a matte black. The fabric was luxurious, thick yet supple, with a subtle sheen. The label was one he recognized from expensive sports shops he’d never dared enter. He held them up. The vest had thin straps and a deep armhole. The shorts were short, with a distinctive, panelled construction.
“I don’t know,” Rob murmured, his fingers tracing the expensive stitching.
“I know you’re embarrassed,” Martin said, stepping out of his chinos. He stood in his own tight-fitting shorts and a compression top, his physique a quiet testament to years of work. “But it’s worth trying to get over that before you get the body of your dreams. Trust me. The more comfortable you are in your skin now, the less desperate you’ll be to transform. That actually makes the transformation easier, because you aren’t chasing it out of hate. You’re building from a place of… acceptance. Or at least, neutrality.”
The logic was sound. More than that, the kindness was overwhelming. After the massage, after the laughter in the car, how could he refuse? Rob turned his back, a last vestige of modesty, and quickly shed his street clothes. He stepped into the shorts. They slid up his thighs with a whisper, the fabric impossibly soft. The waistband sat snugly on his hips, not digging in. There was a built-in liner, a supportive pouch that cupped and lifted him, presenting a defined, prominent bulge that felt both alien and thrilling. He pulled the vest over his head. It settled on his shoulders, the thin straps cutting across his deltoids. The body was slightly baggy, skimming over the swell of his stomach and chest, but the armholes were cut high, exposing the pale, soft flesh of his sides and the lower curve of his pectorals.
He turned around.
Martin was already changed, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed. He didn’t speak. Just looked. His gaze was appraising, but not critical. It was the look he gave a barbell before a lift—assessing its properties, its potential.
“Well?” Rob asked, his voice small.
“Mirror,” Martin said, nodding towards the full-length glass on the wall.
Rob approached it slowly, as one might approach a strange animal. The reflection that greeted him was a shock. The black fabric was kind. It disguised nothing, yet somehow dignified everything. The vest draped from his broad shoulders, the deep armholes framing the pale, hairy expanse of his torso. His puffy, pink nipples were just visible at the edge of the fabric, almost coyly hidden. The shorts clung to the thick columns of his thighs, the black making his legs look solid, powerful even. And the pouch… the pouch created a clear, undeniable shape at his groin. It looked intentional. Masculine.
He saw his largeness. His softness. The pale map of stretch marks on his hips, the gentle curve of his belly. A familiar wave of disgust began to rise in his throat.
Then Martin stepped behind him, a solid, warm presence reflected in the glass. He didn’t touch, just stood close, his eyes meeting Rob’s in the mirror.
“You look amazing,” Martin said, and his voice held no hint of flattery. It was a statement of fact.
Rob stared. The disgust receded, fought back by the sheer force of Martin’s certainty. He saw the same body, but through a different lens. Not as a failed project, but as a physical fact. A body that could hold a heavy barbell. A body that had, just an hour ago, been the focus of skilled, pleasurable attention. A body that housed a hungry, normal, gooning weirdo. His eyes traced the lines of the expensive vest, the way it hung on his frame, claiming space. The reflection was still him—blonde, scruffy, overweight Rob. But for the first time, he saw the ghost of someone else in his own eyes. Someone who belonged here, in this quiet, hard world of iron and effort. Someone who wasn’t just waiting to become, but was already, undeniably, there.
The reflection held for a breath longer, then Martin clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Right. Let’s get some blood moving. You’re still warm from Bashir, perfect for a light session.”
Instead of heading to the elliptical, Martin guided him past the gangling machines towards the back of the cardio area. He pointed to two stationary bikes positioned directly facing one another. “Ten minutes. Just to wake everything up without shocking it.”
Rob climbed onto the left bike, the seat firm under the thin shorts. Martin settled opposite him, his powerful thighs already beginning a slow, rhythmic push against the pedals. From this vantage, Rob had a direct, unavoidable view. The tight compression of Martin’s shorts left nothing to imagination, outlining the heavy, soft weight of him against the dark fabric with a candid clarity. Rob felt a corresponding warmth in his own groin, a simple, pleasant acknowledgment. He looked, and it made him happy.
They cycled in companionable silence for a minute, the whir of the machines a gentle hum. “So,” Martin said, his breathing even. “When did you first goon out?”
Rob’s foot slipped off the pedal with a loud clatter. He fumbled, face burning, as Martin chuckled. “Sorry,” Martin said, not sounding sorry at all. “That was abrupt. It’s just cool to meet a fellow bro in the wild, is all. Rare.”
“It’s… yeah,” Rob stammered, finding his rhythm again. He stared at the digital display, its numbers blurring. “Late teens, I guess. Watched a lot of porn, obviously. Found my way to those videos. Bros gooning out, solo and together.” The words, once secreted away in shame, felt oddly light in the air between them. “I never joined any of the online groups or Discords for guys. Too scared of rejection.”
“But the weed and poppers were a revelation,” Martin stated, as if completing a known equation.
“Yeah. And,” Rob took a sharp breath, the confession feeling bigger than the first, “my toys.”
Martin nodded, his legs pumping steadily. “Makes sense. I started with a pocket silicon pussy, thinking I was so damn kinky.” He snorted, a self-deprecating sound. “My current collection would have something to say about that.”
The casual admission was a gift. It levelled the field. Rob’s nervousness began to dissolve into a buzzing curiosity. “Where do you get your stuff? Your weed, your poppers?”
“My dealer’s a shady little bastard,” Martin grumbled, a flicker of distaste crossing his bland features. “Into too many other things. It’s a transaction, no camaraderie. Why?”
Rob’s blush returned, but it was warmer now, pride mixing with the shyness. “I grow my own weed. And make my own poppers.”
Martin’s pedalling slowed for a beat. A slow, delighted smile spread across his face. “Of course you do. Your studies. Horticulture, botany… just science in general. Right?”
“Right,” Rob said, smiling back. “I’d hate to go back to dealers now. The control, knowing exactly what’s in it… it’s better.”
“Would you consider being my dealer?” Martin asked, the question plain and direct.
Rob’s eyes brightened, the offer feeling like a key turning in a lock. “That’s how I could pay you back. For the membership, the massage… everything.”
“If you can make this stuff, why not sell it properly?” Martin pressed, his gaze intent. “Wouldn’t that help you financially? You’re a student.”
Rob’s enthusiasm dimmed. “You know how you don’t hook up because people are the worst? It’s the same with dealing. My nervous system wouldn’t handle the stress of it. The paranoia, the weirdos, the constant low-grade fear of getting caught. I do it for me. For the peace.”
Martin considered this, then nodded. “That makes perfect sense. And I don’t want to stress you out. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Not a problem,” Rob said, the warmth returning. “I’m glad there’s something I can actually give in return.”
The ten-minute timer beeped. They moved off the bikes, Rob’s legs loose and ready, towards the open space of the exercise floor. Martin guided him through the familiar routine: kneeled push-ups against a bench, bodyweight squats, donkey kicks that made his glutes burn. He moved to kettlebell swings, the solid weight whooshing through the air, then into planks and finishing with lunges.
A subtle shift occurred. Martin’s hands, which had once constantly hovered to correct his posture or demonstrate a movement, now stayed mostly within his own movements. He offered verbal cues—"Drive through the heel," "Keep your core tight"—but the physical adjustments were fewer. Rob was getting it. His body was learning. The pride was real, a solid warmth in his chest, but beneath it ran a thin thread of disappointment. He missed the casual, confident press of Martin’s palm on his lower back, the firm grip on his shoulder to align him.
The massage from earlier had taken the edge off his hunger for touch, but it hadn’t removed the appetite. He focused on the burn in his muscles, on the way his new vest clung to his sweaty skin. His brain, however, spun with the new information. Martin, with his collection of toys. Martin, a fellow connoisseur of solitary, chemically-enhanced abandon. The man was a walking contradiction, and Rob felt an intense, giddy pull towards the heart of that mystery.
Finally, dripping with sweat and breathing heavily, they finished. Martin had added resistance bands to his own exercises, making them appropriately difficult for his advanced level. He peeled the blue band from around his thighs with a snap. “I’m going to chat to Ed quickly. I’ll meet you in the locker room.”
As Martin turned to go, Rob spoke, the words tumbling out before he could cage them. “I have a stash. In my bag. For emergencies.” He swallowed, unsure why this felt more exposing than being naked. “Weed and poppers. I could… give you some to try. Before you commit. If you’d like.”
Martin stopped. He turned back, and a glint of something playful and sharp flashed in his eyes. “That,” he said, his voice low, “might be just the perfect thing.”
Rob nodded, a nervous excitement fluttering in his stomach. He headed for the locker room, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ears as Martin walked towards Ed’s office. The space was empty, quiet but for the hum of the water cooler. He stood by his locker, not opening it yet, replaying the glint in Martin’s eye. It hadn’t just been about the offer. It had been a recognition, a shared secret now compounded by the promise of a shared, private chemistry.
Rob waited on the cool bench, the expensive black shorts clinging to his damp thighs. He listened to the distant thump of the music in the cavernous gym, then the absence of electrical buzz as the lights were shut off. Silence descended, thick and expectant.
The main door swung open with a soft groan. Martin entered, his expression unreadable. Behind him, surprisingly, followed Ed. The gym owner’s usual detached demeanour was gone, replaced by a focused intensity. They stood before Rob, a unified front, blocking the bank of lockers. Rob looked up, his gut tightening with a fresh, familiar anxiety.
Their eyes looked dark and needy. A look he recognised from his own reflection in the seconds before he gooned out, that hollow, hungry stare.
“Everything ok?” Rob asked, trying to keep his voice light. It came out thin.
“We want to include you in something,” Martin started, his voice low.
“Something very private,” Ed stressed. His gaze was fixed on Rob, appraising him in a new, direct way.
“We’re… bros,” Martin said, gesturing between himself and Ed. “Ed and I.”
Rob’s immediate thought was they didn’t look much alike. Then it dawned on him. They weren’t talking about family. They were goonbros. Rob’s eyebrows raised and he couldn’t help but smile, a nervous, disbelieving twist of his lips.
“And you want… me…?” Rob asked, tentatively.
“We do,” the two men said together, their voices overlapping in a harmony of intent.
“Thought we could try your homemade wonders,” Martin added with a grin that softened the accountant’s face into something conspiratorial and warm.
Rob began to fumble in his bag, his fingers clumsy on the zipper. Behind him, he heard Ed moving about the space. The sharp scrape of chairs dragged along the tiled floor echoed off the walls. The hiss of multiple showerheads igniting filled the room with a sudden, roaring white noise, and clouds of steam began to billow from the open tiled space.
When Rob brought the sealed bags from a secret compartment in his gym bag, Martin already had a small, tactical-looking black bong ready and waiting on the bench. Ed had arranged three simple plastic chairs in a tight circle near the showers, where the steam was thickening into a warm, wet fog.
The two men stripped to their briefs without ceremony. Martin sniffed the weed and took some to grind, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. He took a long, practised hit from the bong, his cheeks hollowing. As he held the smoke in, his eyes glazing, Ed took another hit and passed the piece to Rob. Rob’s hands were steadier than he expected as he repacked the small bowl and took his own hit. The taste was earthy, clean, and profoundly familiar.
As Martin exhaled, he gave an appreciative sigh. “That is fucking nice,” he said, his voice already deeper, rougher. His hand was already rubbing the thickening outline of his cock through the grey cotton of his briefs.
Ed and Martin moved in unison. They pulled Rob up from the bench and began removing his clothes, their movements efficient and oddly gentle. The haze of the weed, his own potent strain, was dulling the last of his reservations, wrapping his nerves in a soft, accepting blanket. These men knew what he looked like. They had seen him. And they wanted him involved.
Time to stop resisting.
Rob had three small glass bottles in his stash. He handed one to each of them, the liquid inside a pale, volatile gold. They all took a seat in the circle of chairs, the steam curling around their ankles like eager ghosts.
“Martin should count us in,” Ed said, his eyes heavy-lidded.
Rob looked confused, the bottle cool in his palm.
“Sniff count,” Martin confirmed, unscrewing his cap. A sharp, chemical, sweetly metallic scent immediately bit the air. “Just follow us.”
They each opened their bottles. Rob watched, mirroring them. They sealed one nostril with a finger, held the open bottle to the free one. Martin took a deep, preparatory breath. “One long, slow pull to start.”
They all began to inhale, watching Martin. The vapour hit Rob’s sinuses with a fierce, immediate burn that bloomed into a soaring, dizzying rush of heat that flooded his skull. His scalp prickled. After five seconds, Martin released his finger from his nose and exhaled sharply through his mouth. Rob and Ed followed his lead.
The effect was instantaneous, a nitro-boost to the weed’s engine. Martin and Ed’s cocks strained against their briefs, thick and outlined in stark detail. Rob’s own cock, now rock hard, gave a heavy, autonomous twitch against his thigh, releasing a long, clear glob of precum that slid down the shaft.
“Bro,” Ed breathed, his voice full of awe. “Look at his fucking dong, bro.” He leaned forward, staring. “Look at his beautiful penis leaking for us, bro.”
Martin and Ed’s eyes were locked on Rob’s cock. The attention was terrifying in its newness, a laser focus he had never experienced, but it was thrilling in its blatant, uncomplicated eroticism. He was the object. He was the source. Experimentally, he squeezed his cock muscles, making it jump and leak a little more onto his thigh.
Both men groaned loudly, the sound raw and animal in the steamy room.
“Hit,” Martin commanded, his own voice strained.
They switched nostrils. They took another long, scorching pull. The world dissolved into a pulsating, sensory tunnel. The roar of the showers, the dim light, the smell of chlorine, weed, and amyl, the sight of two older, focused men fixated on his body—it all coalesced into a single, overwhelming point of need.
Once they set their bottles down on the tiles, the ritual shifted. Almost as one, all three men’s hands lifted. They didn’t reach for each other. They locked onto their own nipples, pinching and twisting through the fabric of their vests or against bare skin. Rob’s back arched as his own rough touch sent jagged bolts of pleasure straight to his groin.
Their mouths went slack. Drool began to run down chins and off of tongues, glistening in the humid air. No one spoke. The only sounds were the water, the wet click of mouths, and the ragged, synchronized rhythm of three men breathing, touching, falling into the shared, hungry void together.