The locker room has mostly emptied out by the time you finally step out of the communal showers.
As a gay gym, this place always has a certain underlying charge to it—cruising in the saunas, guys taking their time at the lockers, and an unwritten understanding of the heavy tension constantly hanging in the air. But right now, you aren't thinking about any of that.
Steam clings to your skin as you dry off with one of the tiny gym towels — the kind barely large enough to wrap around your waist if you hold it shut with one hand. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting off the damp tile floor while distant workout machines thud faintly somewhere out on the gym floor.
You walk casually toward your locker at first.
The locker door hangs slightly open.
Your stomach drops instantly.
Your shirt. Jeans. Underwear. Socks. Shoes. Backpack. Every single thing you’ve brought with you.
Only your phone sits inside the otherwise empty locker like a cruel little display piece.
You already know exactly who has done it.
You grab the phone and immediately see a text waiting for you.
“Don’t bother waiting. I’m not coming back. Better start begging guys for clothes.”
You stare at the message in disbelief, your face burning hot.
A snort of laughter comes from behind you.
Two guys near the sinks are openly watching now. Both look freshly finished with their workouts, still flushed and sweaty. In a gym like this, a guy stranded in a tiny towel isn't just an accident—it's an invitation.
“You okay over there?” one of them asks, already grinning.
You swallow hard and tighten your towel instinctively.
“My friend stole all my clothes.”
That immediately sets them off.
The taller guy slowly looks you up and down, taking in the tiny towel and your obvious embarrassment, his eyes lingering just a second too long on your bare chest.
“So what now?” he laughs. “You’re just stranded here naked?”
“I just need something to wear home.”
The other guy shakes his head, laughing harder.
“Nah, bro. We’re letting you twist in the wind for a while. This is way too funny.”
Their laughter echoes through the nearly empty locker room while heat crawls all the way into your ears. You try laughing weakly with them, but humiliation settles heavily in your chest.
The room suddenly feels enormous. Too bright. Too exposed. And Ryan still isn’t answering.
A few more people trickle through over the next twenty minutes, never many at once. Every time someone walks in, panic flares in your stomach. You keep considering asking for help, then backing out at the last second. In this environment, asking a stranger for help while completely naked feels incredibly loaded.
What if Ryan comes back? What if you just wait him out?
Instead, you retreat into the sauna for a while since being wrapped in only a towel looks more normal in there, even if the lingering glances from the other guys make your skin prickle. The heavy heat presses against your skin while your phone glows in your hand.
You finally text him again.
“Nobody’s helping me. They’re laughing at me. Please come back.”
His reply comes almost instantly.
“Not happening. If you’re still naked in two hours maybe I'll come rescue you. But you definitely won’t like what I bring. And you’re wearing thongs for a week after this. Better start begging.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands.
When you finally work up the nerve to step back out and ask again, a couple of guys near the lockers find the situation absolutely hilarious.
“Oh my god,” one laughs. “Your friend is evil.”
“You’ve seriously been stuck like this the whole time?”
“Almost half an hour now.”
They exchange looks, both clearly entertained by the view.
“We’d help if we could,” one admits, “but we don’t even bring extra clothes. Just swim trunks for the pool.”
Neither of them seems in any hurry to leave though. If anything, they look excited to see how the situation unfolds. And honestly, by that point, you are starting to feel genuinely trapped.
That is when he walks in.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Thick muscular arms still pumped from his workout. His gray tank top is darkened with sweat down the chest and back, clinging tightly to his torso. Tiny beads of sweat roll slowly over sharply defined abs whenever he moves.
He looks like the kind of dominant, hyper-masculine guy who commands the room the second he steps into it. And apparently, he knows exactly what is going on within seconds.
“What’s this?” he asks, grinning.
The other guys eagerly fill him in while you stand there red-faced in your tiny towel. By the end of the explanation, he is laughing so hard he has to lean against a locker.
“No fucking way,” he says between laughs. “How long has this been going on?”
“Too long,” you mutter.
He looks you up and down slowly, smirking, completely unapologetic about the way he's sizing you up. “I mean… I might be able to help you out.”
Your entire body relaxes instantly. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah,” he says casually. “I’ve got my old workout clothes.” Then his grin widens. “But it’ll cost you.”
The other guys immediately start laughing again. “You’re charging him?”
“Well yeah,” he says. “I’m not giving away my stuff for free.”
You stare at him. “For sweaty gym clothes?”
He shrugs unapologetically. “I need my clean clothes for work. So if you want my disgusting old gym gear instead, that’s the price.”
The other guys are nearly dying laughing now.
“And honestly,” he adds, smirking at you again, “the idea of you walking around in my sweaty clothes is kind of hilarious.”
You hate how trapped you feel, but you also have no choice. So you pay him.
He slowly hands the outfit over piece by piece like he is enjoying every second of humiliating you. A sweat-soaked tank top. Tiny split running shorts. Retro tube socks. Every item is still damp and warm from his workout.
The moment you pull the tank top over your head, the scent hits you fully — thick, musky, salty, intensely masculine. It clings to the fabric and surrounds you instantly. The shorts are even worse. Or better. You honestly can’t tell anymore.
Your pulse hammers as the humiliating reality of the situation mixes with something intensely arousing deep in your stomach. By the time you finish dressing, you are already fighting a growing erection.
Unfortunately, in this locker room, that kind of reaction is impossible to hide.
The muscular guy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god,” he says. “You seriously got hard from wearing my clothes?”
You cross your arms instinctively, mortified. The other guys look equally stunned and entertained, their eyes locked onto your shorts.
“Guess you need one more thing then,” he smirks.
From his gym bag, he pulls out a soaked jockstrap.
The guy examines the drenched jockstrap thoughtfully, a slow, predatory shift taking over his expression. He doesn’t just see a piece of dirty underwear anymore; he sees exactly how fragile your dignity is in this moment, and a sly, sadistic realization sparks in his eyes. He realizes he doesn't just have to sell you his gear — he can completely dominate you with it.
“Twenty bucks,” he says.
You stare at it. “You’re kidding.”
“You wanna walk out of here pitching a tent?”
You look down miserably at the obvious problem straining against the tiny shorts. “No…”
You pay him again while the others laugh harder.
“Hang on,” he murmurs, his smirk sharpening into something genuinely cruel.
Before you can even process the warning, his large, calloused hands grip the thick elastic waistband. He steps in close, towering over you, cutting off your escape as he positions the heavy, saturated pouch directly over your upturned face.
He twists his wrists with a slow, deliberate squeeze.
A heavy, concentrated stream of warm, freshly squeezed workout sweat splashes down across your forehead, your closed eyelids, and your cheeks. The sensation is shocking — viscous, salty, and thick with his raw heat. It streams down the bridge of your nose and parts your lips, forcing the unmistakable, sharp taste of his intense physical exertion directly into your mouth.
The locker room completely explodes into a chorus of raucous, mocking laughter behind you, but the sound feels distant, drowned out by the sheer sensory rush overloading your brain.
You stand absolutely frozen in place, a submissive fixture under his hands. The heat of his sweat feels impossibly intimate as it cools against your skin, dripping down your neck and chest, effectively washing away your clean shower and replacing it entirely with his essence. The thick, musky aroma of his masculinity is completely inescapable now; it is in your hair, on your skin, and coating your tongue.
“There you go,” he says mockingly, his voice a low, dominant rumble that vibrates right through you. He brings the now-wrung-out, damp pouch down and pats your wet cheek with it, a final, degrading gesture of ownership. “Full outfit.”
The others have gone from casually amused to openly mesmerized by the absurdity of the whole scene.
When you finally go to put it on, your heart hammers against your ribs. As you pull the damp elastic up over your thighs, the reality of what you are doing settles heavily in your gut. You point yourself upward, desperately trying to pin your erection flat against your abdomen, but the moment you pull the pouch tight, your cock and balls are forced to nestle directly into the exact space where his had just been resting moments before.
The fabric is completely saturated with the raw, salty moisture of his exertion. It feels incredibly intimate — impossibly tight and heavy. Your sensitive skin is pressed flush against the concentrated, musky residue of his hard work, trapping his heat and his scent directly against your groin.
Every tiny movement you make causes the coarse, wet fabric to rub against you, a constant, friction-filled reminder that you are wearing his literal sweat like a second skin. It isn’t just a layer of clothing anymore; it feels like a physical marking, a total sensory takeover that leaves you completely overwhelmed, shaky, and utterly at his mercy.
By that point, you don’t even know whether you want to disappear or collapse. Eventually, you force yourself toward the exit.
And the moment you step outside the gym doors, you see Ryan sitting at the nearby bus stop laughing so hard he can barely breathe. Standing beside him is the muscular guy, handing him part of your money.
You stop dead. “You set this up?”
Ryan completely loses it laughing again.
The muscular guy grins shamelessly, leaning back against the glass of the bus shelter. “Your friend said you’d probably break after thirty minutes.”
“You asshole,” you mutter weakly, though your voice lacks any real bite. You are too hyper-aware of the tight, damp fabric clinging to your skin, the heavy masculine scent filling your nose with every breath.
Ryan finally tosses forty dollars back toward you. It flutters to the pavement at your feet. “Consider it a mercy discount.”
Then he smirks, his eyes scanning the skin-tight tank top and the ridiculously brief shorts straining against your involuntary arousal. “Tell you what. You can wash those clothes and bring them back to him tomorrow, and he’ll give you thirty bucks back. Or... you can just keep them.”
The muscular guy crushes any doubt with a low, knowing chuckle that makes your stomach flip. His eyes lock onto yours, heavy with implication. “With the way he reacted just putting them on? Yeah. I have a feeling he’s keeping them. He wants to take my scent home with him.”
Ryan doubles over laughing again. They both know exactly what choosing to keep the gear means. It means going back to your room, locking the door, and privately indulging in the exact humiliation that just ruined you in the locker room.
You stand there flushed bright red on the public sidewalk, completely exposed in his borrowed, sweat-soaked gym gear. You are humiliated, you are furious…
…and as you look down at the money on the ground, you already know you aren't returning a single thing.
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