By Volponia
© 1999-2000, All Rights Reserved.
Greg sat hunched forward on the bench, bent
over, sweat dripping from his forehead between his
outspread knees and making little Plop! sounds on
the vinyl floor. He had lost in the second round,
despite putting everything he had into the game,
and was exhausted.

The locker-room door swung open, then hissed shut.
Greg did not look up until the bench vibrated under
the impact of another body. Then, Greg glanced
sideways through his tangled blond curls and saw
his opponent, the man who had beaten him, sitting with
his head back against one of the grey steel lockers.

"Hey, Jon," Greg said listlessly.

"Good game," Jon responded. Jon did not seem
short of breath -- perhaps the sign of a winner?
-- but he was slick with sweat from the top of his
short-shaved head to the legs that stretched
before him, heels on the floor, toes up.

"Yeah; congratulations," Greg said, sitting up a
bit straighter and wiping his brow with a sodden
towel. "Well, time to hit the steam."

"Me, too," said Jon. Both players stripped off
their clothes with the casual disregard of men in
locker rooms anywhere. Wrapping towels around
their waists, they strode into the steam room.

The steam room was a small cube, about 8 feet on
each side, and had three graduated shelves to sit on.
It was empty when they strolled in, hanging clean
towels around their necks. Greg climbed to the top
level and leaned his back against the wall,
inhaling the steam through flared nostrils. Jon
settled one tier down, no more than a foot away.

"You looked good out there," he said, "but then
something happened. It looked like you got hurt."

"Nah," said Greg, "just a little groin pull, no
big deal." Although his groin indeed ached, he
wouldn't take the easy route and blame his loss on
an injury. "It's real simple; you were on your
game, and I wasn't."

Pushing air out between his pursed lips, Greg wiped
his forehead with the towel slung around his neck
and closed his eyes. Soon, he felt a tickling
sensation along his outflung right leg. Opening
his eyes, he saw that Jon was flexing his shoulders
and neck. With each rotation, a hairy, muscular
shoulder brushed against Greg's thigh.

Greg gulped. "Should I move?" he thought. "Would
it look like I thought he was making a pass at me if I
moved? Would it look like I'm coming on to him if I

He thought of all he knew about the older player. Jon
was a famous ladies' man, or had been until he married
that gorgeous model. She had turned up at every
match, looking happy, cheering wildly. Granted,
the marriage hadn't lasted more than a season, but
still ...

Again, the tickling sensation. Much to his surprise,
Greg felt his sleepy cock stir against the thick
terrycloth towel that covered it. Embarrassed, he
dropped his hands to his lap with assumed carelessness
to cover the evidence of his reaction. He gently
butted the back of his head against the tiled wall of
the steam room.

Jon yawned elaborately, stretched his arms above his
head and let his left elbow drop onto Greg's knee
when he lowered them. He turned and looked up at
Greg, hitting him with the full wattage of his chocolate-
centered eyes. Those eyes! They seemed to burn a
laser beam into Greg's own blue ones from beneath an
ebony fringe of thick, silky lashes.

"So," Jon whispered huskily, "about that groin
injury ... Maybe you need a massage."

"M-massage?" Greg asked in a voice that cracked

"Yeah," Jon said, rising, going to the door in
three long strides and locking it. "We wouldn't
want anybody to walk in and get the wrong idea," he
said, shooting Greg a wide, white grin.

Jon returned to the shelved seating, pushed Greg's
knees apart emphatically and knelt between them.
He unwrapped the towel and uncovered Greg's pink,
uncut cock, which was quivering to life like a
time-lapse film of a tulip bursting into bloom. Jon
placed both hands on Greg's groin, thumbs either side
of his balls, fingers entrenched in the crease between
thighs and trunk. He pressed, gently at first, then
harder, rhythmically.

Greg's cock bobbed and weaved like a boxer after
several hard rounds. Both men ignored it as if it
weren't even there. Jon just pressed away, over
and over, massaging Greg's groin. Greg, caught in
unknown territory between fear and pleasure, let his
head press back against the wall and closed his eyes.

If he didn't see it, he reasoned, it wasn't happening.

After a minute or two, Jon changed his grip. He
brought his thumbs together in the furrow beneath
Greg's throbbing nuts and began pressing the tender
skin there. Startled, Greg let out an "Ungh!" and
instinctively thrust his hips toward the other man.

Jon grinned to himself and blew softly on Greg's cock,
which was now standing erect. The foreskin retracted
and the knob-like head emerged and went from narcissus
pink to the purple of spring hyacinths.

Encouraged by Greg's failure to protest, he then took
the shiny, lavender knob between his lips and began
sucking, gently at first.

Greg jumped again, but said nothing. His hips did
the talking, now moving back and forth along a tiny
continuum of pleasure. Sucking more passionately
now, Jon stopped massaging Greg and flung his towel
to the floor. With his right hand, he began flogging
his dark-red erection in tempo with his lip action on

The silent room seemed filled with the slurping,
sliding sounds of Jon sucking Greg and masturbating
with almost vicious passion. Jon's left hand crept
into the crack of Greg's ass and searched for the
trembling ring of flesh that surrounded his entrance.

Teeth chattering with sensation and with fear, Greg
wordlessly slid his hips further forward on the seat
to give Jon free access to his butt. Head bobbing
over Greg's lap, Jon slid one slippery finger into
the younger man's anus.

The feeling was so strange; it burned like fire but
was pleasurable all the same. Greg felt that his cock
was swelling to a size it had never reached before.
He opened his eyes just enough to look down and see
Jon's dark head in action over his crotch, Jon's right
arm flailing away at his thick cock, Jon's brawny left
forearm disappearing under Greg's own butt.

Greg groaned and lifted his feet, placing them on
Jon's shoulders like some practiced whore. Needing no
further hint, Jon drove his finger all the way into
Greg's ass, where he wiggled it in time with his

The hot cavern of Jon's mouth closed on Greg's cock
like a succubus's unearthly cunt. Up and down Jon's
head bobbed; in and out his finger flew.

All too soon, Greg was able to separate one urgent
sensation from the storm assailing him: the boiling
in his balls that meant he was about to come.

Urgently, he put his hands on Jon's head and pushed
back. Jon looked up impatiently, and Greg blushed and
hoarsely whispered, "I'm gonna come!"

A wicked grin split Jon's unshaven face. "That's the
general idea, partner," he replied, then bent again to
his work. His cheeks hollowed by the force of his
sucking, Jon bobbed faster and faster on Greg's cock,
licking, tonguing, sucking, even gently biting as
Greg's hips rose higher and higher. Jon drew his
finger out of Greg's ass, only to shove it back in
with another for company.

Inside his mind, Greg shrieked. There were no
thoughts, there was no right and wrong, they were in
the night sky, not this tiled cubicle. His entire
being was centered in the head of his cock, his balls
and his throbbing asshole.

With a final thrust, Jon curled his fingers inside
Greg and pressed the walnut-shaped gland there. Greg
shouted, mashed his pelvis against Jon's face and came
in wild, abandoned spurts of steaming cum.

It seemed to go on forever, in slow motion. Each
spasm seemed to be wrung from his spine, from his
feet, from his very soul. The sounds of Jon
slurping, gulping, noisily swallowing his seed made it
all the more exciting ... but eventually, Greg's balls
were drained and he slumped back with a sob of relief.

Jon sprang to his feet, grinning broadly, licking his
full, red lips, still clutching his meaty erection.
He spread his legs, wailed away at his cock and soon
spouted pearly cum, which arced across the distance
between them and landed on Greg's heaving chest.

When he had finished, Jon picked up his towel, leaned
forward and wiped Greg's chest. "Consolation prize,"
he said with a grin. Then, slinging the towel over
his shoulder, he strolled across the steam room,
snapped the lock open and cracked the door. Looking
back over his shoulder, he gave Greg a jaunty salute.

"Next game, I lose," said Jon, and then he was gone.

Locker-Room Lovers © 1999-2000 by Any comments should be sent to this address. Do not reproduce in any manner without the writer's express permission.
BIOGRAPHY - Volponia Foxglove, once an itinerant Sunday School superintendent for the First Church of the Gooey Death and Discount House of Worship, changed careers some three years ago. Having recognized that the unexamined life is not worth living, she examined hers and found it wanting. So she turned her back on a life of Good Works and applied herself diligently to her first love: smut. She has earned at least $37 so far via web publication of her work, and sees a bright future ahead -- or maybe that's just the medication kicking in.
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