Chapter 6: The Unwrapping
The words hung in the oily, charged air between them. Stu felt the minute tremor that ran through Ben’s body beneath him, a seismic shift deep in the bedrock.
“Okay,” Ben whispered, the word muffled by the towel.
Stu dismounted smoothly, the loss of contact feeling like a physical severance. “Flip over. Slowly.”
Ben moved with the deliberate care of someone in shock. He rolled onto his back, one arm coming up to shield his eyes from the low light, the other lying palm-up at his side. The transformation was stark. Face-down, he had been a collection of knots and tension. Now, he was exposed. The soft, worn fabric of his charcoal shorts was tented unmistakably, a steep peak rising from the junction of his thighs. He made no move to cover himself. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
Stu retrieved the bottle, the glug-glug-glug obscene in the quiet. He oiled his hands again, the scent of almonds sharpening. He started at the feet, a deliberate, tactical retreat to re-establish a baseline of professionalism. He worked the arch, the ankle, the calf. His touch was firm, impersonal. But his trajectory was a slow, inevitable ascent.
He worked up the quads, his palms flattening against the hard, lean muscle of Ben’s thighs. Each upward stroke brought him closer. The heat here was different—more vulnerable, more intimate. He could see the faint, fine hair lying damp against Ben’s skin, the subtle pulse in the femoral artery. His own breathing was shallow, controlled, a counterpoint to Ben’s ragged inhalations.
His thumbs pressed into the inner thigh, a centimeter from the straining seam of the shorts. Ben jolted as if electrocuted, a sharp gasp escaping him.
“Sorry,” Stu murmured, not sorry at all. “Adductors are always tight. Just breathe into it.” He repeated the pressure, deeper this time, his fingers splayed wide. On the third pass, the outer edge of his thumb brushed the heavy, soft weight at the base of Ben’s cock through the damp fabric.
Ben’s whole body arched, a silent, strangled cry caught in his throat. His hips lifted from the mat in an involuntary, seeking thrust.
Stu didn’t pull back. He adjusted his grip, his hand cradling the inner thigh, his fingers now unmistakably tracing the thick, hot outline of the shaft. He followed its rampant line from root to tip, a slow, clinical exploration. The fabric was sodden, clinging like a second skin. He could feel every formidable inch, the pronounced curve, the swollen head. A low, wounded sound came from Ben, whose arm was now thrown completely over his face, a shield against the world, or against his own response.
“This is part of it,” Stu said, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. He wasn’t sure if he was explaining or inciting. “The body holds stress everywhere. Pelvic tension is the worst. It locks everything up.” He applied a gentle, persistent pressure along the length, a mockery of a therapeutic release. “You have to let it go. Don’t fight it.”
“Stu…” Ben’s voice was broken, a plea with no clear object.
“I know.” Stu’s hand stilled, hovering. “It’s a physiological response. Blood flow. Relaxation. It doesn’t mean anything.” The lie was exquisite. It meant everything. He moved his hand away, returning to the safer territory of the quad, feeling the muscle jump under his touch. The absence was a punishment. A tease.
For a long minute, he just worked the muscle, letting the tension coil again. Letting the need build. Ben’s erection did not subside. It stood, a brutal truth in the dim room.
Then Stu reached for the towel, folded neatly by Ben’s head. He draped it over Ben’s hips, a thin veil of modesty that somehow made it all more obscene. The shape beneath was perfectly, blatantly outlined.
“The chest and shoulders,” Stu said, as if noting the next item on a checklist. He moved up, kneeling by Ben’s head. He began to work the pectorals, his thumbs digging into the firm, smooth muscle. From this angle, he was looking down the length of Ben’s body, directly at the towel and what it tented. Ben had moved his arm; his eyes were clenched shut, his lips parted. He was biting his lower lip, hard.
Stu’s hands moved to Ben’s shoulders, his biceps. Every stroke was a claim. He was mapping him, memorizing him. The trust was absolute, and it was being atomized from the inside out. James’s smug face flashed again—first come, first served—and a cold, clean fury washed through Stu. This was his. His discovery. His project. His.
On an impulse, he leaned forward, his hands braced on the mat on either side of Ben’s shoulders. He was close enough to feel the heat from Ben’s face, to see the flutter of his eyelashes.
“You’re exceptional, Ben,” Stu breathed, the words for Ben’s ears only. “Do you even know that?”
Ben’s eyes flew open. They were wide, dark pools of confusion and fear and a desperate, hungry hope. He shook his head, a tiny, helpless motion.
Stu held his gaze for three heartbeats. Then he pushed back, sitting up on his heels. “We’re done.” His voice was normal again, brisk, the trainer reasserting himself. “Take your time getting up. Hydrate. You might feel a little… unsteady.”
He stood, his own knees protesting, his body alive with a current of predatory energy. He walked to the sink in the corner and began washing his hands, the soap scouring away the oil, the evidence. He watched Ben in the mirror’s dark reflection.
Slowly, as if in a dream, Ben pushed himself up to a sitting position. He kept the towel clutched in his lap. He looked dazed, wrecked, his curls stuck to his damp forehead.
“The, uh… the release?” Ben asked, his voice hoarse.
“The what?” Stu asked. He turned, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms. The professional mask was back, polite and slightly perplexed. Water dripped from his fingers onto the vinyl floor.
Ben’s face flushed a deep, mortified red. He looked down at the towel in his lap, its shape betraying him completely. “You said… the release. Part of the process.” His voice was barely a whisper, tangled with shame and need.
“The muscular release, sure. We just did that.” Stu kept his tone light, helpful. He tilted his head, studying Ben’s agonized expression. The game was cruel, and he savored every second of it. “Is there something else you need to release, Ben?”
The question hung there, brutal in its faux-innocence. Ben squeezed his eyes shut. He swallowed hard, his throat working. He gave one small, almost imperceptible nod.
“I didn’t hear you.” Stu’s voice was a soft, relentless push.
“I can’t…” Ben choked out.
“You can. Say it.” Stu didn’t move from the sink. The distance was part of the command.
A ragged breath shuddered out of Ben. He opened his eyes, glassy with overwhelmed surrender. “I need… to come. Please.” The last word was a broken thing, lodged somewhere between a question and a prayer.
Stu pushed off the sink. He walked back slowly, each step measured, until he stood over Ben’s supine form. He looked down at the tented towel, at the beautiful, ruined face below him. He knelt.
Without a word, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of Ben’s shorts and the towel beneath, pulling both down in one smooth motion. Ben lifted his hips to facilitate it, a silent, complicit act. The air in the studio felt cool against newly exposed skin.
Stu’s breath caught in his throat, a reaction he couldn’t fully suppress. Seeing it in the locker room had been a shock. Feeling it through fabric had been a revelation. Now, fully presented to him, it was a profoundly visceral sight. He’d been right. It was massive, thick and heavy, curving up against Ben’s taut stomach. He reached out, his own fingers seeming clumsy, and took the base in hand. The skin was hot and satin-smooth. Ben whimpered.
Stu lowered his head.
The first touch of his mouth was a tentative, closed-lipped press against the head. He felt Ben’s whole body tense, a strangled groan echoing above him. Stu opened his mouth, taking in as much as he could. It was an immediate, physical struggle. The width stretched his lips uncomfortably; the length hit the back of his throat far sooner than he was ready for. He pulled back, gasping softly, a string of saliva bridging the gap.
He tried again, slower this time, focusing on the slick, salty taste of skin and pre-come. He used his hand to work what he couldn’t take, which was most of it. The reality of the act, the obscene difficulty of it, sent a jolt of pure, electric power through him. This was a secret not even James could have known. Ben’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
Stu placed a firm, warning hand on his abdomen. “Don’t,” he murmured, the vibration earning another broken sound. He set a slow, deliberate rhythm, all tight pressure and wet, messy effort. His jaw began to ache in earnest. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes from the strain. He ignored it, losing himself in the weight and heat, in the ragged sounds of Ben coming undone above him.
Ben’s hands fisted in his own hair, then dropped to the mat, then gripped Stu’s shoulder with a startling pressure. “Stu, I’m gonna—“
The warning was cut off by his own choked cry. Stu felt the first violent pulse against his tongue and drove down as far as he could, taking it. It was thicker, more voluminous than he’d anticipated, a bitter, salty flood that filled his mouth and threatened his composure. He swallowed convulsively, once, twice, until it was done.
He stayed there for a moment, head bowed, catching his breath. Then he carefully pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up.
Ben was a spectacle of ruin. He was flat on his back, one arm flung over his eyes again, his chest heaving. His spent cock lay heavy on his thigh. A profound, ringing silence filled the yoga studio, broken only by the hum of the HVAC and their uneven breathing.
Stu stood, his knees protesting. He fetched a clean towel from a shelf and placed it gently over Ben. “Get dressed when you’re ready,” he said, his voice rough but even. “I’ll be at the front desk.”