Straight Guy's Gay Spa Blowbang Confession

The spa sat three blocks off the highway, a low brick building with frosted glass and a red sign that didn't bother naming itself. Andre was twenty-eight, married four years to Elise, and she had left that morning for a conference two states away, kissing his cheek and telling him to unwind. He had told himself he was only curious. Straight, white, a man who had never put his mouth on another man, he paid cash at the desk and followed a nod down a tiled hall that smelled of cedar and chlorine.

The steam-room door was heavy. Heat slapped his face, thick and wet, and the only light was a dull amber bulb bleeding through fog. A towel clung to his waist. For a second he heard only water and low voices. Then the fog shifted and he saw them.

Eight men filled the benches, every one of them grown, bodies in their twenties and thirties, towels open or gone. Tomas, thirty-one, built like the framing carpenter he was, sat nearest the door with his cock in his fist, stroking slow. Rafael, twenty-six, lean and dark-eyed, worked the shiny head with two fingers. Owen, thirty-four, gray at the temples and thick through the middle, had his legs spread, a heavy cock resting on his thigh while he pumped the shaft. Derek, twenty-nine, watched the door. Bennett, twenty-seven, Malik, thirty-three, Grant, twenty-four with a runner's thighs, and Nolan, thirty, completed the circle, every cock hard or getting there, fists sliding in the heat.

Andre's mouth went dry. He should have turned around. Instead he stood with the towel tenting, staring at the glisten of precum, the wet sound of skin on skin. Tomas noticed first. A slow grin. "Look at him. Straight boy walked into the wrong room and can't stop staring."

Rafael laughed, soft. "Or the right one. Come closer. You're already hard under that towel. We can see it."

Owen patted the wet tile between his knees. "Steam hides plenty. You came in here for a reason. Hungry looks like yours don't lie."

The words landed like hands. Andre's pulse kicked hard in his throat. Their eyes were open, inviting, starving in a way that pulled instead of shoved. He took two steps in. The door swung shut. Heat sealed around his shoulders. Eight cocks, eight men watching the nervous married man who couldn't look away, and the air between them thickened with something that had nothing to do with steam. Derek crooked a finger. Bennett spread his knees wider. Grant's fist slowed, showing off the flushed length of him, and Nolan's voice came low through the fog. "That's it. Keep looking. We like being looked at by a man who pretends he doesn't know why he walked in."

Andre's cock jerked against the towel. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The circle of hungry stares and the teasing, filthy comments did the rest, drawing him deeper into the heat until the benches were close enough to touch.

They rose without hurrying, towels dropping, and the circle closed around him. Heat and male smell crowded in, soap and sweat and the sharp salt of precum. Tomas stood at his left, Rafael at his right, the others filling the gaps until Andre was walled in by bare chests, hard cocks, and eyes that had already decided what they wanted. His towel loosened at his hip. He let it fall. His own cock stood up, flushed and leaking, and a ripple of low laughter moved through the men.

"There it is," Owen said. "Told you."

Andre's knees bent before he had finished the thought. The tile was warm and slick under him. He looked up through the steam at the ring of cocks and heard his own voice, rough and too loud. "I've always wondered. Secretly. What it would feel like. I want to find out. I want to suck."

"Then suck," Tomas said, and stepped in, guiding the fat head against Andre's lips. "Open up, curious boy."

Andre opened. The first taste hit salt and heat and skin, and something in his chest cracked open into pure want. He took Tomas halfway, cheeks hollowing, tongue sliding under the shaft the way he had imagined alone in the dark after Elise was asleep. Sloppy from the first stroke. Spit welled and ran down his chin. He moaned around it, shocked at himself, and Tomas groaned and petted his hair. "Fuck, look at that mouth. Eager already."

He bobbed, wet and messy, learning the weight, the way the head bumped his palate, the pulse under his tongue. Rafael stroked himself inches from Andre's ear, praising him in a low rush. "That's it. Straight married mouth working a cock like he was born for it. Don't you dare stop."

Tomas lasted only a minute of that frantic sucking before he pulled free, shiny with spit, and Rafael took his place. Andre didn't hesitate. He swallowed Rafael down to the middle, gagged once, adjusted, and sucked harder, one hand braced on a thigh, the other wrapping the base. Praise came from every side. Good boy. Hungry little mouth. Look how he drools. He moved from Rafael to Owen's thicker cock, jaw aching already, and took it with the same sloppy enthusiasm, spit stringing from his lip to the shaft when he came up for air. Owen's hand settled on the back of his head, not forcing, just resting, and Andre pushed himself deeper on his own.

Derek next, then Bennett, each cock different in his mouth, each man groaning and telling him how well he was doing, how pretty he looked on his knees. Andre's own cock throbbed untouched between his thighs, dripping onto the tile. He lost the last of his nervousness somewhere between the fourth and the fifth. He wanted every one of them. He wanted the taste, the weight, the filthy chorus of men calling him good while he sucked. Malik fed him a long, curved cock and Andre took it with a wet gulp, balls brushing his chin, while Grant stroked and waited his turn, murmuring that the straight boy was going to drain the whole room.

The door opened through the fog. Three more men stepped in, towels already gone, drawn by the sounds. Pierce, thirty-two, broad and quiet. Wesley, twenty-eight, grinning as he got hard at the sight. And a third shape at the back, face lost in steam, cock already thick in his fist. Andre barely registered them. Nolan was in his mouth, and he was sucking like he had been waiting years for the chance, spit shining on his chest, knees spread, cock leaking, working his way through every hard dick they offered with a hunger that no longer needed an excuse.

On his knees in the center of the steam, Andre became the mouth they all used. He lost the order and kept the work. Deep on Tomas again when the carpenter stepped back in, throat opening, nose pressed to trimmed hair, gagging wet and pushing through it because the stretch felt like proof. He pulled off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting his lip to the head, and dropped lower to suck Tomas's balls, one and then the other, tongue bathing the sac while his fist pumped the spit-slick shaft. Tomas cursed and came without warning, thick pulses striping Andre's tongue and cheek. Andre swallowed what landed in his mouth, greedy, and licked the rest from his own lip before the next man filled the space.

Rafael gripped his hair and fucked his mouth in short, careful strokes that Andre met, throat relaxing, eyes watering in the heat. "Take it. All the way. Our eager straight cockslut." The words burned and Andre moaned around the cock, agreeing with his whole body. Rafael finished down his throat, hips jerking, and Andre swallowed every drop, Adam's apple working, then opened again before the taste had faded.

Owen's cock was heavier, vein-ridged, and Andre had to work for it. He stroked the base with both hands while he sucked the head, tongue swirling, then sank deeper until his lips met his fists. Owen groaned, called him a filthy married mouth, and came in heavy spurts that flooded Andre's tongue. He swallowed, coughed, swallowed again, cum slicking his chin. Derek stepped up while Andre was still panting and fed him a slimmer cock that slid easy into his throat. Andre deepthroated him in long, wet glides, one hand rolling Derek's balls, the other braced on a calf. Derek praised him the whole time, voice breaking, and painted the back of his tongue white. Andre gulped it down and chased the last bead with his lips.

Bennett wanted his balls sucked first. Andre obeyed, mouthing the heavy sac, tongue pressing, while Bennett jerked himself over Andre's upturned face. When Bennett pushed his cock between Andre's lips, Andre took him to the root and stayed there, throat fluttering, until Bennett swore and unloaded, hips tight to Andre's face. Cum leaked from the corner of Andre's mouth. He didn't wipe it. Malik came in next, curved cock bumping the roof of his mouth, and Andre sucked him with frantic hands working what his lips couldn't cover, twisting, squeezing, milking. Malik gripped his hair, called him their cockslut again, and came in thick ropes Andre swallowed one after another, throat clicking, eyes half shut with lust.

Grant's runner's body trembled when Andre took him. Andre deepthroated, pulled off to suck the balls, deepthroated again, spit bubbling at his lips, fist flying on the shaft between plunges. Grant came hard, the first shot hitting Andre's tongue, the rest pulsing while Andre nursed the head and swallowed, greedy sounds spilling out of him. Nolan followed, thicker, and Andre had to slow down, jaw aching, taking him in steady sucks while both hands pumped and squeezed. Nolan held his head and groaned that the straight boy was made for this, and Andre answered by taking him deeper, swallowing around the head until Nolan spilled, hot and heavy, and Andre drank it.

He was losing count. Face glazed, chest streaked, chin shining, cock dripping onto the tile between his spread knees. Pierce stepped into the circle, thirty-two and broad, and Andre reached for him without being asked, mouth open, tongue out. He sucked Pierce with pure lust now, no curiosity left, only the need to feel another cock throb and give up its load. Deep, sloppy, balls in his mouth when he needed a breath, then back on the shaft, hands frantic, twisting slick skin. Pierce came across his tongue and Andre swallowed, moaning, already turning toward the next.

Wesley, twenty-eight, grinning, fed him a cock that curved up, and Andre took it like a man starved, throat opening, nose buried, hands cupping Wesley's ass to pull him deeper. Wesley fucked his mouth in slow strokes Andre welcomed, spit running down Andre's neck, and when Wesley came Andre gulped and gulped, cum spilling anyway, painting his chest in fresh white over the drying streaks. Around the tenth he stopped trying to number them. His jaw throbbed. His throat was raw and eager. Cum coated his lips, his cheeks, the hollow of his throat, his pecs. He stroked and sucked with nothing left in him but want, a straight man on his knees in a gay spa, servicing every cock they put in front of him, swallowing load after thick load while they groaned and gripped his hair and called him their eager straight cockslut.

The last man stepped out of the thicker steam at the back of the room. Andre didn't look up. He saw a cock, thick and flushed, a wedding band glinting when the man stroked once and offered it. Andre opened and took him deep, throat working, hands pumping the base, balls against his chin, sucking with the same frantic lust that had carried him through all the others. The man groaned, low and familiar in a way the steam muddied, and gripped Andre's hair. Andre deepthroated him, pulled off to mouth his balls, tongue bathing the sac, then sank back down and sucked hard, desperate to finish what he had started. The cock swelled. The man cursed. Hot cum flooded Andre's mouth in heavy pulses, and Andre swallowed every drop, throat working, lips sealed, not spilling a bead of this last load until the man was finished and softening on his tongue.

He pulled back, panting, cum and spit shining on his mouth, and the steam thinned just enough.

Cedric. Thirty-five. Married. The colleague from the cubicle row at the office, the one who brought donuts on Fridays and talked about his wife's garden. Cedric's cock, spent and wet, hung in front of Andre's glazed face, and Cedric was smirking down at him with the same filthy satisfaction burning in Andre's own gut. Too late. The recognition hit after the swallow. Andre had already taken every cock in the room, lost count past ten, and drunk them all down, including this one. His face and chest were painted. His knees ached. His own cock still stood, leaking, untouched and furious.

Cedric thumbed a streak of cum from Andre's lower lip and watched him lick it clean without being told. Around them the other men stroked lazily, spent and grinning, steam curling over a floor of towels and spit.

"Office on Monday," Cedric said, voice rough. "You'll still taste all of us."

Andre stayed on his knees, mouth open, tongue out, chest heaving under the glaze of eleven loads, and Cedric's smirk widened as the straight cockslut swallowed the last smear and waited, filthy and used, for whatever cock wanted his throat next.