Shower Tease at Sixty-Five

The public pool after eight had always been mine alone until Hector started showing up. At sixty-five I still swam twice a week, steady laps in the outside lane while the overhead lights buzzed and the water slapped the tiles. He was thirty-two, long-limbed and solid through the shoulders, cutting the lane beside me with an easy stroke that never seemed to tire. We nodded. That was all. Tonight the deck emptied early. I finished my last lap, hauled myself out, and followed the wet footprints into the locker room. The place was deserted, lockers shut, only the showers running.

I kept my trunks on and stepped under the second nozzle. Hector stripped without pausing, suit dropped to the bench, and walked naked into the spray two feet away. Water poured over his back and broke across the tight curve of his ass. I soaped my chest and let my eyes travel lower, studying the way the muscles shifted when he reached up, the heavy weight of his cock hanging thick between his thighs, the head resting against one leg. Steam rose. He turned his head. Our eyes met. He saw exactly where I was looking. Color climbed his throat, and his cock lifted, swelling, thickening until it stood half-hard and heavy under the stream. He held my gaze a second longer, then faced the wall again and finished rinsing. I stayed under the water with my pulse loud in my ears, the shape of him already burned behind my eyes.

Two evenings later the lanes were empty again by the time we climbed out. The locker room echoed. Hector chose the nozzle right beside mine this time and peeled the suit off in one motion, cock swinging free as he stepped into the heat. I kept the trunks on, water beating my shoulders, and watched. He took the soap and worked it slowly across his chest, down his stomach, over his hips. Then he turned his back fully to me, planted his feet, and soaped the cleft of his ass with long, unhurried strokes of his fingers, spreading the lather so it ran in white ribbons between the cheeks and dripped from the underside of his balls. Every second I stared, his cock answered. It thickened against his thigh, lifted, filled, the shaft darkening as it rose until it stood straight out from his body, fully hard, the head flushed and twitching with each beat of the spray. A thin strand of fluid stretched from the slit and broke. He glanced over his shoulder. No hesitation in his eyes, only the same hunger I felt straining against wet fabric. His free hand lifted, fingers curling once in a clear beckon.

I shoved the trunks down and kicked them aside. My own cock sprang up, thick and already leaking. I stepped in behind him under the shared spray, close enough that the heat of his skin met mine. Soap slicked everything. I set one hand on his hip and slid the length of my cock between the soapy cheeks of his ass, not pushing in, just nesting the shaft in that hot cleft and thrusting forward until the head nudged the small of his back. He pushed back at once, grinding, the muscles of his ass flexing around me. Water poured over both of us. I reached around his waist with my other hand, found his erection, and wrapped my fist around it. He was iron-hard, pulsing, the skin velvet-slick with soap and precum. I stroked him in long, firm pulls from root to crown, twisting lightly at the top the way I liked it myself, thumb sliding over the swollen head on every upstroke.

He groaned, low and rough, and rocked his hips. Each time I thrust between his cheeks he met me, ass cheeks squeezing my shaft, the friction hot and perfect and nowhere near enough to enter him. My cock slid easily in the lather, the ridge of the head catching on the tight muscle at the top of his cleft before gliding down again. I kept the rhythm steady, fucking the soapy channel of his ass while my fist worked him in counterpoint, long strokes that dragged a fresh bead of fluid out of him with every pass. His breathing went ragged. Steam filled my lungs. The wet slap of skin and the rush of water covered the small sounds he made when I tightened my grip and stroked faster, palm slick, fingers circling the sensitive spot just under the head.

He braced one hand on the tile and pushed back harder, spreading his stance so I could thrust deeper between his cheeks without ever breaching him. My balls drew up tight. The heat of him, the way his ass clenched and released around my shaft, the heavy throb of his cock in my fist—all of it coiled low in my gut. I pressed my chest to his wet back, mouth near his ear, and drove forward in shorter, sharper strokes, the entire length of me riding that slick cleft. My hand never stopped. I jerked him with firm, relentless pulls, feeling him swell even thicker, the head flaring against my thumb. He shuddered, thighs trembling, and ground back onto me like he wanted every inch of friction I could give.

The pressure broke. I thrust once more, hard, and came in thick pulses that striped across the small of his back and the upper curve of his ass, white against wet skin, immediately starting to run in the spray. The clench of my orgasm made my fist tighten around him. He gasped, hips jerking, and erupted in my hand—hot spurts coating my fingers and wrist, more of it jetting forward to splatter the tile while I kept stroking him through it, milking every last throb until he was shaking and empty. My own cock still twitched between his cheeks, the last of my cum sliding down his spine. We stood there breathing hard under the water, my arm still around him, his ass still pressed to my softening shaft, both of us spent and slick.

He glanced over his shoulder, mouth curved in a satisfied smirk as the last ribbons of our mixed seed rinsed down his skin and swirled toward the drain. I stepped back. We rinsed in silence, soap and cum vanishing under the hot spray. I shut my nozzle off, grabbed a towel from the rack, and dried myself without looking at him. He did the same on his side of the bench, movements unhurried. We dressed apart, the only sounds the drip of water and the rustle of clothes. At the door he paused, one hand on the push bar, and looked back at me.

“Thursday again?”