Poolside Tease with the 65-Year-Old

The evening lanes were mine by the time I got there. The public pool ran late on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and after seven the families were gone, the lane ropes sagging in water that had gone still and faintly chemical. I was thirty-two, and those two nights were the only hours in the week that belonged entirely to my body. I changed in the empty locker room, pulled on my suit, and walked out into the humid hush with my goggles in my hand.

He was already in the water.

I had started noticing him a few weeks back. A plump man, sixty-five if the soft gray at his temples and the careful way he lowered himself down the ladder were any indication, moving through the slow lane with a steady, unhurried stroke. His trunks were dark and a little too snug across a thick waist. When he turned at the wall his chest rose, broad and furred with silver, and the water sheeted off a belly that had settled into itself years ago. He never rushed. He never talked. He just swam, and when he finished he climbed out and disappeared toward the showers while I was still counting laps.

Tonight I finished later than usual. The lifeguard was already folding chairs at the far end, not looking at anyone. I hauled myself out, water running off my shoulders and down the line of my stomach, and padded barefoot across the tile. The open showers were a row of heads along one wall, no stalls, no curtains, just a drain trough and the echo of pipes. He was under the second one. Trunks still on. Soap in his hands. Steam lifting off his shoulders.

I took the head beside him and peeled my suit down without thinking much about it. That was how I always showered. Naked, quick, done. The wet fabric hit the bench with a slap. Cool air touched my cock, my ass, the insides of my thighs, and then the water came on hot and I stepped under it and closed my eyes.

When I opened them he was looking.

Not a glance. A look. His hands had stopped moving on his own chest. His eyes were on my ass, plain as anything, traveling the curve of it where the water ran, then lower, to my cock hanging heavy against my thigh. He didn't pretend otherwise. He didn't jerk his gaze away when I caught him. Something in his face went still and hungry and unashamed, and the sight of that—this older man, plump and gray and solid, standing there in soaked trunks and drinking me in—hit me low in the gut.

I turned a little, under the excuse of reaching for soap. Let him have the side of me. My cock stirred. I felt it thicken, lift a fraction off my thigh, not hard, not yet, just waking up because someone was watching it happen. Heat crawled up my neck that had nothing to do with the water. I soaped my chest slowly and didn't cover myself. The exhibition of it, the open tile, the fact that anyone could have walked in and didn't, made my pulse knock. He kept looking. At my ass when I shifted my weight. At my cock when it swayed, half-risen, the head darkening. I liked it. I liked it more than I had any business liking it from a stranger who hadn't said a word.

I rinsed. I didn't touch myself. I shut the water off while I was still only semi-erect, the thrill sitting in me like a held breath, and I walked back to my locker with his eyes on my back until the corner took me out of sight. I didn't look over my shoulder. I didn't need to. I already knew I would be thinking about that look for two days.

Thursday I swam badly. My stroke kept breaking because I was listening for the ladder, for the particular splash of him turning. He was there, same lane, same unhurried pace, water sliding over that soft heavy body. I stayed in longer than I needed to. When he climbed out I gave him a few minutes and then followed, heart loud in my ears, cock already restless inside my suit.

The showers were empty except for him. Trunks on again. Water beating his shoulders. The lifeguard had gone to the office. The locker room door was shut. It was just the two of us and the open row of heads and the wet shine of the floor.

I stripped in front of him this time. Not beside him, not turned away. I hooked my thumbs in the suit and worked it down my hips while he watched, and I let him see my cock come free, already thicker than it had been on Tuesday, already interested. I stepped under the spray next to him and took my time with the soap. Chest. Stomach. I ran my hands over my own ass and felt the muscle there, slick and warm, and I turned so that my backside faced him square.

"You can look," I said. My voice came out lower than I expected. "I want you to."

A rough sound left him, almost a laugh, almost a groan. "Been looking," he said. His voice was deep, a little worn. "Name's Gareth."

"Everett." I soaped the cleft of my ass slowly, fingers parting just enough to tease, not hiding a thing. "I'm thirty-two. You're not shy, Gareth."

"Sixty-five," he said. "And no. Not when a man stands there like that and likes it."

I liked it. I bent a little at the waist to rinse my calves and felt his stare land on me like a hand. Water ran down my spine and between my cheeks. I straightened, turned my head, and met his eyes over my shoulder while I soaped my cock in long, unhurried pulls. It filled in his gaze. I watched it happen and let him watch it too—the thickening, the lift, the way it jutted out from my body until I was fully hard, flushed, aching, pointing at the tile. My balls drew up. Every nerve in me was lit by the simple fact of being seen.

"Jesus," he muttered.

"Take them off," I said. "If you want this. I want it. No one else is here. Just don't—" I swallowed, still stroking myself, still offering him my ass. "Don't fuck me. Grind. I want to feel you. That's it."

He didn't hesitate. The wet trunks peeled down his thick thighs and hit the floor. His cock came out heavy and hard, shorter than mine but thick, the head already wet, nested in gray hair above a soft belly and strong, age-softened legs. He was erect for me. The sight of that—sixty-five, plump, unashamed, hard because I'd shown him my body—made my own cock jump in my fist.

He stepped in behind me. Heat at my back. The wet press of his stomach against my spine. His hands settled on my hips, broad and sure, and he waited one breath, a question in the grip.

"Yes," I said. "Do it."

His cock slid up between my soapy buttocks, hot and blunt, riding the cleft without pushing in. He groaned against my shoulder and started to grind, slow at first, the length of him dragging through the slick channel of my ass, the head nudging up toward my lower back and then sliding down again, over and over, never breaching me. Just pressure. Just the obscene, slippery friction of him using my ass to get off while the water poured over both of us. I pushed back into it. I wanted the weight of him, the way his belly cushioned against me, the way his thighs bracketed mine. Open showers, open tile, my hard cock out where anyone could have seen it, and an older man rutting the crack of my ass because I'd asked him to. The exposure made me dizzy.

His hand came around. He knocked mine away and took me in a slick fist, and the first full stroke tore a sound out of my throat. Long, tight, wet pulls from root to tip, his thumb sliding over the head on every upstroke, timed to the grind of his hips. I braced a forearm on the wall and fucked forward into his hand and back onto his cock, caught between the two, shameless about it.

"That's it," he said, rough in my ear. "Show me. Let me see you take it."

"Harder on my cock," I managed. "Don't stop looking. I want you watching when I come."

He stroked me faster, grip firm, soap and water making every drag filthy and perfect. His cock sawed between my cheeks, the head kissing my hole on each thrust and skating past it, a tease we both understood wasn't going further. I clenched anyway, giving him a tighter channel, and he swore and ground deeper into the squeeze without entering. His free hand spread me, held me open so he could see himself sliding there, and the knowledge of that—of him staring down at his cock nestled in my ass while he jerked me—sent heat flooding my spine.

"Close," I said. "Gareth—fuck—I'm close."

"Me too. Right on your back. You want that?"

"Yes. Come on me. I want to feel it."

His fist tightened and sped up, ruthless and good, and I broke. My cock pulsed hard in his grip and I came in thick ropes that striped the wet tile, spattering the wall, my thighs shaking, a raw sound ripping out of me as I pushed my ass back onto him and kept coming. He didn't let go. He stroked me through it, milking every jerk, and then his rhythm stuttered and he groaned deep and shoved up between my cheeks one last grinding time. Heat hit my back in spurts. His cum landed across my spine and the top of my ass, hot even under the shower, stripe after stripe, dripping almost as soon as it struck. He kept rutting weakly, cock throbbing in my cleft, emptying himself on my skin while my own last spurts dripped from his fingers onto the floor.

We stood there under the running water, both of us panting. His load slid down my spine in slow trails. My cum swirled toward the drain, thinning in the runoff. His hand eased on my cock but didn't drop it yet, just held me, softening, while his hips gave my ass one final slow grind, cock still nestled between my cheeks, a last smear of him worked into the soap.

I looked back over my shoulder. He looked at me. Satisfied. Wrecked in the way a man gets when he's gotten exactly what he wanted and knows it. No grin. Just that look, and the water, and the open room that had held all of it.

We rinsed without speaking. He soaped my back once, practical, clearing the mess, and I let him, then stepped out from under his hands and shut my shower off. He did the same. Trunks in his fist. My suit in mine. We didn't touch again. We didn't arrange anything. We walked into the locker room on separate beats and dressed with a row of benches between us, the slap of wet cloth and the tick of the old clock the only sounds.

I toweled my hair and felt the ghost of his cum on my back even though it was gone, felt the ache in my cock and the tender heat between my cheeks where he'd ridden me without ever pushing in. He nodded once when he passed me on the way out. I nodded back. The door swung shut behind him.

I sat on the bench a moment longer with the towel in my hands, the quiet pool humming through the wall. He thought this had been a moment that closed when the water stopped. He didn't know I had already moved my Thursday shift at work so I could be in that lane at the same minute next week, hard before I even reached the showers, ready to turn my ass to him again and ask for exactly this. That part was mine. I stood, dressed, and walked out into the night with it kept.