Shower Frot with My Gay Camping Buddy

The trail had worked them hard. Grant, twenty-one and still turning the word bicurious over in his head like a stone he wasn’t ready to skip, dropped his pack by the tent and rolled his shoulders until something popped. Andre, his best friend and openly gay for as long as Grant had known him, peeled off a sweat-dark shirt and laughed at the red line the strap had left across his chest. He was twenty-one too, easy in his body in a way Grant had started noticing on this trip and couldn’t quite stop. They’d hiked all day through dry pine and red rock, talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did, and the campground shower block waited at the edge of the clearing with its row of open-top stalls and the promise of hot water.

The place was nearly empty this late. Concrete dividers rose only to Grant’s shoulders if he stood straight. Adjacent nozzles, a shared drain, the smell of wet stone and cheap citrus soap. Grant took the left stall. Andre took the right. Clothes hit the bench. Grant stepped under the spray and hissed as heat found the ache in his calves, then soaped his chest and arms while trail dust ran off him in gray ribbons.

Through the steam he could hear Andre’s water, the slap of hands on skin, a low pleased sound that wasn’t quite a word. Curiosity had been building since the first night of the trip, maybe longer, ever since Andre had said he liked men and Grant had felt something tilt in his chest instead of away. Tonight the divider felt too low. His pulse sat high in his throat. He worked lather down his stomach, slower than he needed to, and told himself he was only checking the water pressure. He rose onto his toes, heart hammering, and stole a glance over the divider while the soap still slid under his own hands.

Andre stood with his back half-turned, water sheeting over the long line of his spine. Grant’s breath caught. He should have dropped back down. He didn’t. His eyes stuck on the firm curve of Andre’s ass, wet and tight, the cleft shadowed where the spray didn’t quite reach, muscle shifting as Andre shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Lower, between his thighs, his cock hung half-hard, thick even soft, the head flushed darker than the rest of him, swaying when he reached for the soap. Grant’s own hand had gone still on his stomach. Heat that had nothing to do with the shower climbed his neck.

He eased down just enough that only his eyes cleared the concrete, and wrapped his fist around himself. He was already thickening. The first stroke was guilty and slow, slick with soap, and the sight of Andre’s ass flexing as he bent to rinse his calves made Grant’s grip tighten. He watched the half-hard cock swing, watched water bead and run off the underside, and stroked faster, biting the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t make a sound. Steam blurred the edges. His pulse thudded in his cock in time with his hand.

Andre straightened. For a second his head turned, and Grant knew—knew in his gut—that Andre had caught the stare over the divider. Their eyes didn’t quite meet. Andre looked away as if he hadn’t seen a thing, as if the steam and the concrete were still doing their job, and reached down with a casual hand to soap his groin. The pretense was deliberate. Grant could feel it. Andre’s fingers closed around that thickening length and he began to pump, slow at first, then with a purpose that had nothing to do with getting clean.

The sound carried. Wet skin, a fist working, a soft squelch every time his hand slid to the head and back down. Andre’s cock lengthened under the strokes, filling, lifting, until it stood hard and flushed, the head shining. He planted one hand on the wall and worked himself in earnest, hips rocking into his grip, the squelching louder now, obscene in the quiet block. His ass clenched with each thrust of his fist. Grant stared, stroking himself in a frantic match, soap and precome making his own shaft slippery. He couldn’t look away from the way Andre’s balls drew up, from the vein along the underside, from the open-mouthed breath Andre didn’t bother to hide.

Andre came with a low grunt he tried and failed to swallow. Thick ropes spat against the concrete and his own wrist, pulse after pulse, his fist still working through it, the squelch turning messier. Grant’s knees nearly buckled. Watching those ropes stripe Andre’s fingers, watching his ass tighten and his cock jerk, shoved Grant over the edge. He came hard into his own hand, biting down on a moan, stripes of it hitting the divider and his stomach while his eyes stayed locked on Andre’s spent, twitching cock. For a long moment there was only water and their rough breathing. Andre rinsed himself as if nothing had happened. Grant did the same, shaking, and neither of them said a word on the walk back to the tent.

The next night the showers were empty again. Grant took the same stall, telling himself he wouldn’t look. He was halfway through soaping his chest when he felt it—the weight of a stare. He glanced up. Andre was on his toes on the other side of the divider, not hiding it, eyes on Grant’s body with an open hunger that made Grant’s stomach drop and his cock stir. Andre didn’t pretend. He watched Grant’s hands move, watched the water run down Grant’s stomach, and his mouth curved, small and knowing.

Grant’s face went hot. He tried to keep washing, but Andre’s stare sat on him like a hand, and his cock thickened anyway, lifting from his thigh until it stood semi-hard, unmistakable. He couldn’t will it down. Andre’s gaze dropped to it and stayed there. The water roared. Grant’s ears rang.

“Shall I join you?” Andre’s voice was quiet, steady, no joke in it.

Grant’s throat worked. He was shy with it, suddenly, the want sitting right on his skin where Andre could see it. He nodded, then found his voice. “Yeah. Okay.”

Andre stepped around the divider without hesitation, both of them clearly eager, both of them choosing it. The stall was narrow. Their shoulders brushed. Grant’s semi-hard cock bumped Andre’s thigh and he sucked in a breath, but he didn’t step back.

They stood under the shared spray, close enough that Grant could see water beading in Andre’s lashes. Andre squeezed a palmful of shower gel from the bottle on the hook and rubbed his hands together until they foamed, citrus sharp in the steam. “Your chest,” he said, and waited. Grant nodded again. Andre’s palms landed warm and slick on Grant’s pecs, spreading gel in slow circles, thumbs dragging over his nipples until they tightened. Grant’s breath stuttered. He took gel of his own and returned the touch, learning the breadth of Andre’s chest, the way muscle jumped under his hands, the trail of hair that darkened as it ran downward. They worked over each other without rushing, backs next, Grant’s fingers sliding along Andre’s spine, Andre’s hands mapping Grant’s shoulder blades, then lower, over the flare of his waist.

Thighs came after. Andre knelt a little in the spray to soap the outsides of Grant’s legs, then the insides, careful, his knuckles brushing close to Grant’s balls without grabbing yet. Grant did the same, kneeling on the wet concrete, gel slicking the hard muscle of Andre’s thighs, feeling them tense under his palms. When they stood again they were both breathing harder. The gel made everything slippery. Their stomachs touched. Grant could feel Andre’s cock against his hip, thickening in slow pulses, not fully there yet, growing while Andre looked him in the eye and kept soaping his sides.

It happened gradually, the way Andre had said nothing and everything with his hands. His cock swelled against Grant’s skin, lifting, filling, the head dragging a wet line up Grant’s hip as it rose. Grant looked down and watched it happen: Andre going from heavy and interested to fully erect, thick and flushed, the shaft curving slightly, veins standing under the sheen of gel and water. Andre didn’t hide it. He let it press forward, let Grant see how hard he’d gotten from nothing more than their hands and the heat between them.

Grant’s own cock answered a moment later. The semi-hard lift became a full, aching erection, rising until it stood against his stomach, then tipped forward as Andre shifted closer. He felt the weight of it, the throb at the base, the way precome welled at the tip and mixed with the gel. Andre glanced down, smiled, small and pleased, and didn’t touch it yet. He soaped Grant’s lower stomach instead, fingers spreading foam around the root, teasing the sensitive skin until Grant’s cock jumped.

Then they moved at the same time. Their cocks met in the narrow space between their bodies, shafts bumping, heads kissing with a soft wet sound. Grant made a noise he didn’t recognize. Andre’s hand settled on Grant’s hip, steadying, asking without words. Grant answered by shifting his weight forward so their lengths pressed more fully together, hot and slick and unmistakably hard.

Andre swung his hips. His cock slapped lightly against Grant’s, a smack of wet skin that echoed off the concrete, then swung back and smacked again. Grant tried it too, a clumsy roll of his pelvis that sent his shaft colliding with Andre’s, the impact startling and good, a jolt straight up his spine. They found a rhythm in it—swing, smack, the dull delicious clap of cock against cock, gel and water spraying in tiny droplets. Andre laughed once, breathless, and Grant laughed with him, the shyness burning off under the simple fact of how much he liked it. He liked the weight. He liked the heat. He liked the way Andre’s cock felt as solid as his own, the heads catching, the shafts sliding past each other only to collide again.

Smacking gave way to rubbing. Andre pressed in until their cocks lay trapped between their stomachs, and rolled his hips in a slow grind. Grant matched him. The friction was slippery and relentless, shafts sliding along each other from root to tip, heads nudging, the undersides dragging in a long, filthy glide. Gel frothed between them. Every stroke painted more slickness along both lengths. Grant’s hands found Andre’s waist, then slid lower, greedy now, palms filling with the firm muscle of Andre’s ass. He gripped hard, pulling Andre closer so their cocks mashed together more tightly, and Andre groaned against his shoulder, hips stuttering.

Grant’s fingers slipped into the crack. Warm, wet, the cleft deep and soft at the center. He slid two fingers there, not pushing inside, just nestling them along the heat of Andre’s hole, feeling it flutter under the pads of his fingers as Andre ground forward. Andre’s breath broke. He pushed back into Grant’s hand even as he rubbed his cock harder against Grant’s, the dual sensation making his thighs shake. Grant liked that too—the way Andre opened for the touch, the way his ass flexed in Grant’s grip, the obscene slide of their shafts frotting in the soapy crush between their bodies.

They stopped swinging and just rubbed, urgent now, grinding cock to cock in short, desperate strokes. Grant’s fingers stayed in the crack, pressing, stroking the sensitive rim while his other hand kneaded Andre’s ass and hauled him in. Andre’s arms came around Grant’s shoulders. Their chests slipped together. Their cocks aligned and slid, trapped, the heads bumping on every thrust, precome mixing with gel until the friction was almost too smooth and they had to press harder to feel it. Grant’s balls drew tight. Andre’s did the same, brushing Grant’s with each roll of their hips.

“Like that,” Andre breathed, not a command, just the truth of it, and Grant nodded against his neck because he did, he liked all of it, the smack still echoing in his memory and the rub happening now, the fingers in Andre’s crack and the thick hot length sawing against his own. They frotted faster. Water poured over their shoulders and ran between their pressed stomachs, rinsing foam and leaving skin and cock and cock, slick enough to glide, tight enough to burn in the best way. Grant’s fingers flexed in the cleft. Andre’s hole clenched against them. Their shafts pulsed in the same rhythm, heads leaking, the wet sounds of frot filling the stall—slip, smack, the soft slap of hips.

Grant felt the climb hit him all at once, a bright wire from the base of his cock up through his stomach. Andre’s rhythm broke at the same moment, hips jerking, a rough sound torn out of him. They came together. Grant’s cock kicked against Andre’s and spilled in thick pulsing jets between their bodies, stripe after stripe painting Andre’s shaft and both their stomachs. Andre erupted with him, hot spurts mixing with Grant’s, their cocks throbbing in unison, pressed so tight the come had nowhere to go but up between them and down over their balls. Grant’s fingers dug into Andre’s crack as he shook through it. Andre held on, grinding through the last pulses, both of them emptying in the same messy, shivering rush until there was nothing left but twitching and the roar of the water.

They stayed like that while the aftershocks faded, foreheads touching, breath slowing. Then they rinsed, slowly, under the warm spray. Grant’s hands were gentler now, washing come and gel from Andre’s stomach, from the softening length of him, from the cleft where his fingers had been. Andre did the same for him, palms easy, unhurried. They exchanged satisfied smiles, small and a little stunned, and Andre leaned in for a soft kiss that Grant met without thinking, mouths barely open, water on their lips. Another kiss, quieter. No words.

They stepped out and toweled each other dry, trading the rough camp towels, Andre’s hands careful on Grant’s back, Grant’s on Andre’s shoulders. The block was still empty. The night air hit their damp skin when they walked out. They headed back to the tent side by side, shoulders brushing now and then, the new intimacy sitting between them, quietly acknowledged, and neither of them spoke.

The gravel crunched. The tent waited in the dark. They walked into the silence and let it hold.