Chapter 5: Chapter 5
The air in the locker room was thick, a soupy mix of chemical tang from the popper infused atmosphere and the skunky sweet fog of Rob’s weed. Rob’s head lolled back against the vinyl chair, his vision swimming with the cracked ceiling tiles. To his left, Martin was a landscape of soft, hairy muscle, his neat everyday face slack with pleasure, his thick cock moving in a steady, practiced rhythm in his fist. On his right, Ed, the solid quiet owner, was now just another naked, sweating form, his muscular body glistening, hand pumping slowly.
They’d lost their briefs at some point. Rob couldn’t remember when.
“That’s it, bro,” Martin slurred, his voice a low rumble. “Just feel that dong. Own it.”
“Fucking beautiful, man,” Ed grunted, not looking at anyone, eyes glued to the hypnotic motion of his own grip. “Such a good fuckin’ stroke.”
The language was repetitive, mindless. A mantra of ‘bro’ and ‘yeah’ and ‘dong’ that somehow melted Rob’s anxiety into the background hum of the fluorescent lights. He watched them, his own hand moving on autopilot, spurred on by their sounds, by the blatant, unashamed display of it. Drool had smeared down Martin’s chest. Ed’s thigh was slick with it.
“Grease,” Ed muttered suddenly, unfolding himself from his chair. He padded to a locker, the sound of his bare feet on tile loud in the room. He returned with a large tub of Albolene. He popped the lid, dipped his cock head into the container, smearing it with a thick, Vaseline-like goo.
He passed it to Martin who repeated the action, using his hands to work it onto his cock with a slick, schlick sound that made Rob’s stomach tighten. “Game changer, Rob,” Martin breathed, handing the tub over.
Rob didn't hesitate. He pushed his rock hard dick into the thick substance. The cream was cool, shockingly so. He pulled back and applied it all over his shaft, the slide instantly smoother, more intense. He let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Fuck, look at that,” Martin said, his eyes on Rob’s moving hand. “You’ve got a great grip, man. Perfect for that dick.”
“Solid build,” Ed added, his gaze travelling over Rob’s body in a way that felt clinical and hungry all at once. “Strong shoulders. Good foundation. You ever work construction?”
“N-no,” Rob stammered, the compliment short-circuiting his brain.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Ed said, and went back to his rhythm.
They spiraled like that for what felt like hours, minutes, forever. Spasming, edging back, the pleasure a constant high-tension wire humming through the room. It wasn’t about release. It was about existing in the buzz, the meditative trance of almost. Rob’s mind went blank in a way it never did when he was alone. He was just a body among bodies.
Then the focus shifted.
“Christ, look at his chest,” Martin murmured, his voice thick.
Ed’s eyes snapped over, locked onto Rob’s torso. “Fuck yeah. Those tits.”
Rob flinched, the old shame flaring. But their voices held no mockery. Only a kind of ravenous appreciation.
“So full, bro,” Martin continued, his own motion slowing. “Those nipples are just begging for it. I wanna bite ‘em.”
“Want my mouth all over them,” Ed grunted, his breath coming faster. “Just suck on ‘em for hours. Feed on that. God, that’s prime.”
The words, so candid, so direct, speared through the haze. They loved his chest. The very thing he hid. The fleshiness. They wanted it. The image of their mouths on him, the sheer animal greed in their tone, detonated something low in Rob’s spine.
A sharp, electric coil snapped.
“Oh fuck—” was all he got out before his body arched violently, untouched by anyone but himself. Thick ropes of cum shot from his cock, arcing through the air. One stripe landed with a warm splat on Martin’s bare foot.
The sight of it, the proof of his own release, seemed to trigger everything. Martin stared at his own foot, dazed, then with a groan, brought it up to his mouth and licked the stripe clean in one slow, deliberate motion. As his tongue swiped as his hand stroked, his eyes rolled back and he came with a shout, his load painting his own stomach.
Ed was up then, towering over them both, his fist a blur. “You glorious fat-titted bro!” he roared, and then he was coming too, an obscene, copious fountain that splashed across Rob’s and Martin’s bellies, hot and shocking.
Silence, but for the ragged panting.
Then a laugh bubbled out of Rob. It was weak, disbelieving, and then it was real. Martin joined in, a deep chuckle that shook his spent body. Ed sank back into his chair, a grin splitting his stern face.
“Pretty great, right?” Martin asked, wiping at his eye.
“Fuckin’ is it?!” Rob exclaimed, his body buzzing with a sated, heavy peace he’d never found alone.
Ed nodded, catching his breath. “Your weed. Those poppers. Gave it the edge. Never had product like that.”
Slowly, like men moving through deep water, they began to stir. Ed and Martin moved with a familiar synchronicity, pulling Rob up with them, steering him towards the showers.
The water was a shock, then a blessing. They passed soap, not speaking much. Rob washed Martin’s back, the muscles firm under his palms. He took the bar from Ed and soaped his chest, letting his fingers graze the older man’s cock. He expected a jolt, a reignition. There was none. Just the smooth skin, the weight of it, a part of the whole. It was just cleansing.
But as the water began to cool, and Rob was rinsing his hair, they were on him again. Martin soaping his chest, Ed’s rough hands following. Washing became fondling, thumbs circling his nipples with a possessive tenderness. Rob saw the look pass between them—that greedy, focused hunger again.
Martin nudged Ed with an elbow. A silent communication. They both pulled their hands back as if from a stove.
“Alright,” Ed said, his voice back to its normal, grounded tone. He turned the showers off. The sudden silence was loud.
They propped the locker room door open, the cool gym air slicing through the steam and scent. Drying off, dressing, it was all easy. The world outside the haze felt soft at the edges.
“See you both tomorrow?” Ed asked, pulling his jacket on, a grin playing on his lips.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Martin said.
Rob nodded, enthusiastically. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”
The ride back was quiet. The streetlights strobed through the car, painting Martin’s profile in flashes of orange and shadow. The high was fading, and in its place, a dull weight settled in Rob’s gut. The thought of his apartment—the single bulb, the empty fridge, the silent, screensaver-lit loneliness—felt like a physical blow.
“You okay?” Martin asked, his eyes on the road. “That was… a lot. The massage, the session. Can be intense.”
“I feel more alive than ever,” Rob said, and it was true. But alive things needed connection, and his destination offered none.
“I remember that feeling,” Martin said softly. He pulled up outside Rob’s building, the engine idling. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken invitation.
On a whim, fueled by a desperate need to prolong the night, Rob heard himself speak. “You wanna… see my setup?”
Martin didn’t even hesitate. He put the car in park and killed the engine. “I’d love to.” He looked over, his bland face kind in the dim light. “Maybe we could get some takeout?”
Rob’s heart, which had been sinking, now soared. “Yeah,” he said, fumbling for his keys. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.”
Rob’s keys jangled against the deadbolt, a frantic percussion that matched his heartbeat. He shouldered the door open, a wave of stale, warm air rolling out to meet them—old pizza, synthetic citrus cleaner failing miserably, and the underlying, sweet-rot scent of neglect. “Sorry, it’s… I wasn’t expecting…” he mumbled, kicking a crumpled Monster can out of the entryway. It clattered against a tower of pizza boxes leaning precariously by the overflowing bin.
Martin stepped in, his eyes doing a slow sweep of the cramped studio. The floors were tacky in patches. A faint, unidentifiable funk permeated the air. Rob watched his face, bracing for the polite mask of disgust, the subtle step back.
“I’m so sorry, it’s a mess, I just—” Rob’s apology tumbled out in a rushed whisper until Martin’s hand settled on his shoulder, firm and warm. He turned Rob to face him, his gaze steady and surprisingly soft.
“I don’t care,” Martin said, his voice low. “Seriously. I have a sparklingly clean home I could go to. Stainless steel, everything in its place. It feels like a morgue.” He took a deliberate breath, his nostrils flaring slightly. “This feels… filthy. In the good and bad ways.” He gave a short, genuine laugh. “Real.”
Rob’s shoulders slumped, not with defeat but with relief. “Thanks,” he said, the heat in his cheeks receding a fraction.
“Now show me your set up,” Martin requested, his curiosity plain.
The tour was brief. The spare room was a jungle of grow tents, the humid air thick with the smell of vegetation and soil. “Not all weed,” Rob explained, pointing to one tent with smaller, strange-leaved plants. “Some are experiments for my botany class. The light cycles are different.” Then, in the kitchen corner, his makeshift lab: glassware, chemicals in labeled containers, a small fume hood he’d rigged from a fan and a plastic bin. He talked Martin through the process of making amyl nitrite, his voice gaining confidence as he explained the chemistry, the distillation, the quality control.
Martin listened, nodding. “Given the resources, this is seriously impressive,” he said, examining a freshly sealed bottle. “The stuff you had tonight was smoother than anything I’ve bought.”
“And your goon station?” Martin asked, a sly smile playing on his lips.
Rob led him to the bedroom. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled. A desk in the corner held three monitors, their glow the room’s only light. “The whole room, if I’m honest,” Rob admitted, a fresh wave of self-consciousness hitting him. “Sometimes the bed, sometimes the desk. I’m a mess.”
“Yes, you are,” Martin said, without a trace of cruelty. “And that’s okay. You’ll have to come to my place and see my set up sometime. Locked away in the basement, hidden from the Mrs.” As he spoke, one of Martin’s hands drifted down to adjust himself through his trousers, the other absently circling a nipple over his shirt. He saw Rob noticing and gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry. It’s the smell.”
He took another deep, audible breath. “The poppers, the weed, the… stank. It’s like a magical elixir in here.” His eyes fluttered closed for a second. When they opened, the look in them was focused, hungry.
“Did you want to…” Rob began, the question half-formed.
“Absolutely yes,” Martin said, and began unbuttoning his own shirt.
Rob moved quickly, grabbing two fresh bottles of poppers from a drawer, his bong, and a specific bag of weed from a stash box. “This is a good gooning strain,” he explained, packing the bowl. “Not too sedating, not too manic for the brain.”
As Rob took the first hit, holding the smoke in his lungs, Martin stood there topless, his pants undone but still on. He stepped closer and began undressing Rob, pulling his t-shirt over his head with a practical gentleness. Once Rob’s chest was bare, Martin’s eyes roved over his torso, lingering on the broad, soft plane of his chest, the dark circles of his nipples. Rob couldn’t believe it—this tangible, silent fascination with the very part of himself he’d always hidden.
He found himself pushing his chest out slightly as Martin took the bong from his hands for a hit, the older man’s eyes never leaving Rob’s torso.
Rob shucked off his remaining clothes, set his laptop on the bed, and dimmed the overhead light to a dull amber. He pulled up his favourite gooner playlist—endless streams of men gooning and bating to a throbbing, wordless electronic pulse—and sat on one side of the laptop. Martin sat on the other, naked now, his body a landscape of neat grey hair and solid muscle in the low light.
They settled into a rhythm, passing the bong, taking hits from the poppers, the familiar chemical rush blurring the edges of the room and sharpening the sensation of skin on sheets. The laptop screen played its endless, hypnotic slideshow, but after a while, Rob became aware of a shift.
Martin wasn’t looking at the screen.
He was looking at Rob, his eyes dark and fixed. He was deep into his own nipple play, one hand pinching and rolling his own, the other slowly stroking his cock, which was already leaking onto his stomach. A soft groan escaped him as he tugged at his own chest.
Hearing that, Rob turned his body more towards Martin, offering him a better view. He began his own more exaggerated movement, palming and squeezing his broad chest, watching Martin watch him.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Martin began to move closer. It seemed unconscious, a gravitational pull. An inch. Then another. The space between them on the rumpled bed evaporated until their knees were almost touching. Martin’s breath hitched, his strokes slowing, his attention wholly captured by the sight of Rob’s hands on his own body.
The music swelled, a deep bass thrumming through the floorboards. Rob held Martin’s gaze, his own hands still moving, and waited. The electronic pulse from the laptop seemed to sync with the thick beat of his heart. Martin’s lips parted, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it broke.
“Bro,” Martin breathed, the word slurry and dense. “Would it be crazy if I sucked on your tits?” He blinked, as if hearing himself. “They are fucking majestic, bro. I love them so much, bro.”
Rob was stunned. The raw, unfiltered want in Martin’s voice wasn’t like the locker room chatter. This was direct, a question aimed solely at him. It was actually happening.
Martin seemed to gather himself, a flicker of his corporate manner breaking through the haze. “Sorry, bro. I don’t want you to think that you have to do anything because I’m… or because…” He trailed off, his hand pausing on his own cock, his expression suddenly vulnerable.
Rob didn’t let him finish. He moved, pulling himself up to kneeling on the messy bed. He shuffled forward, the sheets catching under his knees, and straddled Martin’s lap. He looked down, then deliberately presented his chest, arching his back slightly to push the soft, heavy flesh forward.
Martin just looked. His eyes were wide, taking in the offering. Then his hands came up, not grabbing, but hovering. They settled with a shocking gentleness, his thumbs beginning to circle Rob’s nipples, to pull and knead the surrounding muscle and fat. A low, approving hum vibrated from Martin’s throat.
Rob brought the open popper bottle up to Martin’s nose. Martin leaned into it, closing his eyes, and took a long, deep hit through both nostrils. As he exhaled, a full-body shiver wracked him and he seemed to collapse forward, his neat beard scratching as his mouth found Rob’s right nipple.
The sensation was a lightning strike. Rob groaned loudly, the sound torn from somewhere deep and unused. He fumbled with the bottle, managed to get his own hit, the chemical rush exploding behind his eyes as he screwed the cap on with a clumsy twist. Then he gave in.
It wasn’t furious, or fast-paced. If anything, it felt like slow motion. Every nerve ending lit up under Martin’s tongue, the rough-soft exploration of his lips on Rob’s chest meat. Martin’s hands found their way to Rob’s ass and he just palmed and massaged the fullness there, his mouth making filthy, wet sounds that were louder than the music.
They were both completely blissed out, completely in synch. Rob, his orgasm building from the attention alone, began grinding his hips in small, helpless circles. His cock rubbed against Martin’s hairy stomach, leaving slick streaks. In turn, the motion dragged his taint along the length of Martin’s hard cock beneath him.
It wasn’t long before both men were spewing their loads, Martin’s groan muffled against Rob’s skin, Rob’s cry sharp and open. But it took a longer while for them to stop enjoying each other, Martin’s tongue lapping slowly even through the aftershocks, Rob’s hips making tiny, spent pushes.
Once they had calmed, Rob climbed off, his body feeling boneless and new. He slumped onto the bed beside Martin.
“That was the best thing I’ve ever done,” Martin said, his voice raspy.
Rob laughed, a breathy, disbelieving sound. He couldn’t formulate a reply.
“I could do that every day,” Martin said, turning his head to look at Rob. He was completely serious.
Rob just smiled at him, not trusting himself to speak. The smile felt strange and easy on his face.
“Food,” said Martin, slapping his own thigh. “What’s good around here?”
“The pizza place on Dalston Road is actually good,” Rob managed. “The one with the green sign.”
Martin let him order on his phone, insisting on paying. They half-dressed in comfortable silence, pulling on boxers and t-shirts. While they waited, Martin unconsciously began to tidy. He collected the empty popper bottles, the bong, the discarded clothes. He found a spray bottle and a rag under Rob’s sink and started wiping down surfaces.
“Sorry,” he said, catching Rob watching him. “It’s bred into me. Can’t help it.”
Rob joined in, gathering the pizza boxes from the floor. It was a peaceful, shared activity that helped move the foggy headedness. By the time the pizza arrived, the place actually looked better, the air clearer.
They ate greedily, the grease and cheese a perfect anchor. After the last slice, both exhausted, Martin sighed. “I should head home. Sadly.”
The hug he gave Rob at the door was tight and full. “Thank you,” Martin murmured into his shoulder. “For one of the best days of my life. So far.”
Rob giggled, the sound bright in the dark hallway. “Yeah. Me too.”
“See you at the gym tomorrow,” Martin said, stepping back. “And you have my number. If you need.”
After Martin left, Rob realized it was 2 AM. He fell into bed, the sheets smelling of sex and clean skin, and was asleep in minutes.
He woke late, having slept for ten solid hours. Sunlight cut through the gaps in his blinds. On his phone, a message from Martin sent an hour ago.
Morning gorgeous boy.
Attached was a picture of Martin’s hard dick, poking out of a striped dressing gown in what looked like a pristine, sunlit kitchen.
Rob, now rock hard himself, snapped a picture of his own cock. He framed it with the pair of Martin’s underwear he’d swiped from the locker room earlier in the week, the grey cotton laid on his stomach. He sent it.
The reply was immediate.
That’s where they went. The stank must be gone by now. I’ll get you some “fresh” ones tonight.
The steel side door clanged shut behind him, sealing off the damp evening air. The gym was a cavern of silence and stillness. Rob’s soles squeaked on the clean rubber flooring as he made his way past sleeping weight racks and machines, their shapes vaguely predatory in the low light, towards the low voices.
“Hey buddy!”
Martin’s voice, warm and booming, cut through the quiet. He and Ed were leaning against the front desk, two mugs of coffee steaming between them. Ed gave a rare, tight smile, his muscular arms crossed over his chest.
“We were just debating if you’d got lost,” Ed said, pushing off the desk to shake Rob’s hand. His grip was firm, calloused. “Or if we’d scared you off for good last night.”
“No chance of that,” Rob said, the grin spreading across his face felt permanent, earned.
He swung his bag onto the counter with a thump. “Brought you some supplies.” From the main compartment, he pulled out two carefully wrapped packages, handing one to each man. “Three strains. Creativity, sleep, and… the good gooning blend. And a new batch of poppers. Cleaner formula.”
“You absolute legend,” Martin breathed, inspecting the goods like precious contraband. He stepped forward and wrapped Rob in a solid hug, his neat beard scratching Rob’s cheek as he planted a firm kiss there. The contact, so casually affectionate, sent a jolt of pure warmth through Rob’s chest.
Ed simply nodded, his gratitude quiet but evident in the careful way he stashed the package under the desk. “This’ll make the week a lot better. Thanks, kid.”
“C’mon,” Martin said, slinging an arm around Rob’s shoulders. “Let’s get you changed. How was your day?”
They walked towards the locker room, Martin’s arm a comfortable weight. “Amazing, actually,” Rob said, and it wasn’t an exaggeration. “Woke up feeling… clear. Productive. Cleared some deadlines, even sorted my grow room.”
“My text help?” Martin asked, a sly smile in his voice.
“The picture definitely didn’t hurt,” Rob laughed, bumping him with his hip. “Started my morning right.”
“Good.” Martin’s voice dropped, turning confidential as the locker room door swung shut behind them. “I’ve never done that before, you know. Sent a picture like that. To anyone.”
The admission hung in the humid air between them, charged and simple. "Me either," Rob grinned, storing the knowledge away like a treasure. He busied himself with his locker, the squeak of the hinge loud in the tiled space.
“In that case,” Martin said, his tone shifting back to playful. He pulled a small, worn cotton bag from his own locker and tossed it to Rob. “A trade.”
Rob caught it. The moment he loosened the drawstring, a potent, musky, utterly masculine scent bloomed out. It was sweat, skin, and something uniquely Martin. He groaned, his cock twitching insistently against his sweats. “Man, don’t get me worked up before we even work out.”
Martin chuckled, low and knowing. “And these,” he added, producing a second bag, this one from a sportswear brand. “Thought you could use some colour.”
Rob unpacked the gear: a light blue vest, almost mesh-like, and a pair of stark white shorts. He changed quickly, the vest loose and airy, the shorts sinfully tight. He turned to the full-length mirror. The vest gaped at the sides, his nipples visibly peeking out with every breath. The shorts left nothing to the imagination, sculpting his ass and cradling his bulge in a way that was both obscene and thrilling.
“Perfect,” he breathed, admiring his own reflection with a boldness that was entirely new.
He turned to Martin, whose face had gone slack. Martin’s hand was already palming himself through his grey compression shorts, his eyes dark and fixed on Rob’s chest. “Too fucking right it is,” he growled, the sound hungry.
Then he shook his head, as if breaking a spell. “Right. Floor. Now. Before I say screw the workout.”
The elliptical machines faced the mirror, a cruel instructor for most. Tonight, Rob found a strange rhythm, his body moving easily. The tight shorts pulled with each stride, a constant, pleasant reminder. “So,” he asked between breaths, “you and Ed. It’s just the one session a week?”
“Yeah. It’s enough for him,” Martin said, his own machine whirring steadily. “He’s got his girlfriend, his routine. This is just… supplemental. For both of us.”
“And Hilary?” Rob ventured, the name feeling foreign and intimate on his tongue.
Martin’s rhythm didn’t falter, but his gaze fixed on a point far beyond the mirror. “What about her?” The question was soft, devoid of its usual warmth.
“You said you’d grown distant. Is that… is it just the sex?”
A long silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic hum and click of the machines. “It’s the silence,” Martin finally said. “It’s coming home to a beautifully clean house that feels like a hotel. It’s talking about the mortgage and the drains. It’s sleeping back-to-back for a decade.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “The sex thing was just the first crack. Now it feels like we’re just… co-managing a life. A very quiet one.”
“Jesus, Martin.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Martin said, a sharpness returning to his voice. He shot Rob a look that was almost challenging. “I have my releases. The gym. My… hobbies. This.” He gestured between them on the machines. “It’s more connection than I get at home most weeks.”
They lapsed into a companionable silence, the effort of the workout replacing the need for words. After fifteen minutes, they moved to the exercise mats.